You’ve Got The Love (Love On The Line #1)

Chapter 1

Amber

Imean, who wants a flower arrangement made solely of yellow and pink bloody carnations?

I can’t help screwing up my face as I look through the day's orders. I absolutely hate carnations; in my opinion, they're the worst flowers ever. I feel like I do have a little authority on the matter as I own the sweetest flower shop on my tiny island. Granted, there is only one flower shop on my tiny island, but still, it's the sweetest. ‘Wild Ones’, I love the name so much, I smile each time I see it. Also, I must say it’s not ‘my’ island, but the island I was born and raised on and have lived on ever since—Hampstead Island. It’s situated on the south coast of England, accessible only by a small bridge (or boat, obviously), in the beautiful county of Hampshire. In the summertime, it’s glorious, with our sandy beaches that stretch on for miles along the coast. We also tend to have hot summers, being the closest part of the country to France, but the winters here can be pretty bleak.

We often drop below freezing, but we don’t face the same harsh conditions as they do up North and in Scotland.

They regularly have a ton of snow and can spend weeks in the minus figures.

Growing up in the winter was hard; there wasn’t much to do, nothing in place for teenagers, so we did the usual: we sat on a freezing beach, huddled together in our big winter coats and beanies, drinking cheap cider from plastic bottles that we’d managed to get older kids to buy for us.

I shudder thinking about drinking that stuff, but I also can’t help but smile at the memories.

Nowadays, I love all seasons here, but autumn is my favourite. The colour of the trees, hot cocoa, …

“And don’t we look fancy today, boss… I can’t imagine why?

” Jess, one of my florists, announces her arrival as she stows her coat in the cupboard and sidles up next to me, wagging her eyebrows.

She is a constant bloom of colour, from her shiny red Doc Martens to her bubblegum-pink hair, which changes frequently.

Her personality is just as loud as her fashion sense, and over the years of her working here, we’ve become close friends.

She’s fiercely loyal, outspoken, and unapologetically herself. I adore her.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about…

” I sing-song back, biting my lips to stop the huge smile trying to break free as I look down at my fitted checked shirt, blue jeans that may or may not make my bum look great, and my best work boots, in place of my old ratty ones.

And of course, my navy-blue apron with ‘Wild Ones’ embroidered on it.

“Mmmmhmmm… fancy a cuppa?” She asks as she looks through today’s work clips.

“Sure do, sweet. Busy day ahead. How did the date go?”

“Urrrghhh… don’t ask! The guy was a bore. Like, he wore a suit. On a first date! To a pub. Then proceeded to tell me what was wrong with the wine I was drinking. Which made me drink said terrible wine faster! I swear I’m getting off these dating sites.”

“You know you say that once a week, right?” I look at her, grinning. How she hasn’t found a decent guy, with the amount of first dates she’s been on, I have no idea.

“Well, it's true… for a few days at least,” she laughs, and I hear her finishing our teas as I make my way across the shop floor to open up.

I might never have been in love at the age of 27, but I know I love my shop.

It was my dream since I was a girl to own a florist, and I worked my bum off to make that a reality at 24.

I juggled two, and sometimes even three, jobs at a time to save up.

From stacking shelves and cleaning houses to my full-time job as a florist on the mainland.

No job was below me to make my dream come true.

It’s beautiful, yes, I’m biased, but it truly is beautiful.

It’s full of a riot of colour, from the tall vases of fragrant blooms to the vases and pots made by local artisans who have a shelf or two each here, and there are beautiful paintings by Jess of the island, our beaches and open spaces, hung around the shop.

She is exceptionally talented, and as I stand here, I lose myself in a painting of the colourful beach huts along the seafront until I see a steaming mug pushed in front of my face.

“Neck that, boss, you’ve got that wedding consultation in an hour,” she says ominously.

“Thank you, I’m gonna to need it. I’m going to pop over to Bea and grab a croissant. Want one?” I offer as I sip my milky tea.

“Oh, you know the way to my heart, Ms Bell. You know I can’t turn down one of her pain au chocolat.” She pretends to swoon as she begins collecting the flowers she needs for the first order of the day.

I stow my mug on my counter safely, then flip the door sign to ‘open’ and make my way across to ‘Isabella’s’ the bakers, for our morning treats.

Every time I walk into the bakery and the smell of frosting, coffee, and pastry hits me, I know there’s no way I could work here and not end up the size of Jabba the Hut.

It’s crammed in here this morning; all the tables are occupied, which is normal for this time of the day.

I see Mrs Davenport, my neighbour from when I was a little girl, and I swear she hasn’t aged a bit. She waves me over as I weave through the packed tables.

“Hello, dear, how are you today?” She asks, putting her cup of tea down. She’s dressed in her usual blouse, skirt, and low heels combo, with a floral brooch on her blouse. She’s dressed like this every day that I can remember.

“I’m good but busy, thank you, Mrs D. You?” I say as I crouch down next to her.

“I’m fine. How’s the shop doing?”

“Very busy! But I wouldn’t have it any other way. We have so many weddings booked in for the next two years, which I’m so excited about.”

“Joan would be so proud of you, dear,” she whispers as she pats and cups my cheek gently.

“I hope she would have been. I miss Nan so much, but I love my memories of being in the garden with her,” I whisper back, emotions swirling as they always do, thinking about my beloved grandmother. Mrs D and my nan were close friends all their lives, or I should say, all my nan’s life.

“I can’t believe it's been nine years since she passed. Life goes by so quickly. But we have much to be thankful for, dear. Any young men on the scene?”

“No. I don’t have time at the moment. I barely have time for myself. One day, maybe.”

“It’s a crime that a handsome young man hasn’t swept you off your feet. A beautiful girl like you deserves a hunky man,” she wags her eyebrows at me, which causes me to laugh out loud.

“Mrs D! There’s more to you than meets the eye.”

“I was married and had five kids, I know all about the birds and bees,” she announces with a big smile on her face. Oh, I just love her. Saucy minx.

“Mrs D, I’ll never look at you the same,” I laugh. “Anyway, I gotta get going, busy day and all that,” I kiss her cheek and smile down at her.

“Have a good day, dear. And you never know when Cupid will fire his bow,” she calls after me as I weave through the tables to the counter, making me whirl to blow her a kiss.

The glass cabinets are chock-a-block today; there’s everything you could possibly want in here. Cupcakes with huge swirls of frosting on top, Mille-feuille brimming with custard or fresh cream, apple turnovers, egg tarts, donuts, croissants, and Jess’s precious pain au chocolat.

“Hey, babe. How are you?” Bea asks, making me jump out of my skin.

“Bloody hell, babe. You move like a ninja. I was so engrossed in imagining myself eating one of everything that I didn’t even see you appear,” I laugh.

“You were totally zoned out,” she smiles.

“I really was. Anyway, hows you?”

“Not too bad, super busy today. I feel like we make more and more every day, but it’s never enough.”

“Everyone loves your bakes. That’s a great problem to have, it's better than having to throw stuff away at the end of the day.”

“Yeah, true. What’ll it be? Usual?” She asks as she starts preparing a cake box.

“Yep, almond croissant, pain-au-chocolat, and a selection of other goodies. Oh, and a Chelsea bun, please,” I add shyly.

“Oh, yes, it’s Monday… no wonder you look so good today.”

“Not you too. Jess has already pointed that out. So, I may have taken extra care with my appearance today, that’s not illegal last time I checked,” I add in mock defense as I pat my blonde curls, checking none have fallen out of my carefully crafted messy bun, knowing by the end of the day I'll have blonde ringlets loose everywhere and possibly a rogue pen stuffed in my hair that I’ll find when I get home.

“No, not illegal, but what is illegal is that you don’t just ask that guy out. He’s clearly into you, too.”

“I can’t! It’d be so unprofessional, his flowers are the best, and I won’t ruin that relationship,” I almost whine.

“I get your point, I do, but you two have been circling each other for the last eighteen months now, and I think it's worth the risk. You deserve to be happy, babe,” she remarks as she leans on top of the cabinet, looking at me with serious eyes.

I’ve known Bea—short for Beatrix—since primary school.

I got sat next to her on my first day at school, and we’ve been friends ever since.

I don’t know what I would have done without her in my life; she’s the best friend and cheerleader a girl could have.

She knows everything about me; she’s the only person who does.

When people learn you are the daughter of a member of an outlaw Motorcycle Club, they tend to jump to conclusions about who you are as a person.

Dad, known to most as ‘Chains’, sent me down here to live with my grandparents when I was two years old, as life in a one-percenters MC really isn’t the place for a child to grow up, especially a girl.

Bea and I have been best friends since. She has never judged me, never looked at me any differently. It’s just not her way.

Bea has that kind of natural beauty that you see YouTubers and TikTokers trying to recreate with layers of makeup, calling it ‘no makeup-makeup’.

She doesn’t wear any of the stuff; she doesn’t need it.

Her red hair and freckles are next-level beautiful.

She hated both growing up, got bullied terribly and was called all the usual ‘ginger’ names kids think up, but since getting older, she has embraced them.

“I am happy, honest, Bea; you know I am. I love my life, and I feel extremely grateful that I can say that. I’ll have time for a guy later, promise. We don’t all get to meet our soulma–”

“Anyway, still on for Saturday? I’m craving Indian food so bad,” she interrupts me, quickly changing the subject completely as she fusses with the cake box.

“Yeah, course. Jess is up for it, too. Lauren is away visiting her parents this weekend, so it’s just the three of us.

” I take pity on her and follow her lead as she guides us away from any mention of Jacob.

She refuses to talk about him, which I absolutely get; I wouldn’t want to either if I were in her shoes.

“Yay! Let’s get dressed up, it’s been ages since we’ve been out!” She does a little dance behind the counter, which has me laughing. She’s such a dork, but I love her for it.

“You’re on! Anyway, how much do I owe you?” I ask, getting a twenty-pound note out of my pocket, doing our usual thing where payment is concerned.

“Pffft, your money is no good here, Bell. Take your goods and be gone!” She chirps dramatically, passing me my haul.

“Fine, fine. Put it on my tab, will you?” I grin at her as I make my way out of the bakery.

Smiling, I walk back across the road, calling out ‘hellos’ and ‘hi’s’ to both customers and other shop workers.

What a beautiful September day it is. We are being graced with some gloriously warm days, for which I’m super grateful, as the foot traffic has been brilliant in our little town lately.

It’s been buzzing with life here, from people food shopping, to catching up with friends at ’Isabellas’, checking out the new pet shop ‘Tails of Joy’, that my friend Lauren has opened, and just generally milling around.

I notice that Jess is waving me over from inside the shop, so I double-time it back across the road, hoping to God we haven’t got another mouse in the shop. I love all animals, but I prefer those wild ones not to live in the back of my shop and eat their way through boxes.

“Boss, take a look at this for me. It must be a mistake, right?” Jess says seriously, which makes me go straight to her—she’s rarely this serious.

I drop the baked goods in the kitchen—which is actually just a sideboard, kettle, tea, coffee, and sugar canisters, a sink, and a microwave—and she hands me the delivery slip for the funeral wreath that she’s just made.

“I don’t understand. Is this some kind of joke? If it is, it’s not a funny one,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the delivery slip. Why does it say my name?

“No idea? It must be a mistake. Right? There’s not even a message card? Why would someone send you personally a funeral arrangement?” Jess states, looking a mixture of confused and pissed off.

“Yeah, give the shop that placed the order with us a call, they’ve likely put our address in the wrong box, it’s happened before,” I tell her as my eyes stay locked on to the funeral wreath she’s made.

It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, packed full of ‘Grand Prix’ roses, but it can’t be for me.

The roses are a stunning, deep, blood red; they are one of the top-grade roses we use.

I’m sure this is a mistake; the florist this was ordered at likely put our address into the wrong box.

I guess as I pass the delivery slip back to Jess.

“Where’s the florist that sent the order?” I ask, already sure this is some silly mix-up, as I turn back to prepping for this morning’s wedding consultation with a very Bridezillery bride.

“Erm… London,” Jess replies, already tapping in the number to call.

I let out a short laugh that feels a little too forced. London. Right. Just a coincidence. It has to be. No way this ties back to Dad. He would’ve told me if something was going down.

I push the thought aside, take a steadying breath, and busy myself collecting flowers for my appointment.