The music cut off abruptly, and the sound of quick, light footsteps approached. A series of locks clicked on the other side, and it finally swung open to reveal Holly standing there in denim overalls with a cream-colored thermal underneath, her hair pulled up in a messy bun with a pencil stuck through it.
She blinked at me, her head tilting to the side. “Luke?”
“Hi,” I said. By some small miracle, my voice didn’t shake, and I hadn’t started sweating yet. “I … uh. I’m sorry to just showup out of the blue like this. I should have called. Or texted. I probably should have?—”
“It’s fine,” she said, and to my shock, she smiled. “Come on in. Sorry about the mess.” She stepped back, holding the door open wider, and I forced my feet to move across the threshold.
The smell hit me first: green and fresh, like a forest after rain, cut through with something sweeter—lilies, maybe?—and that sharp, medicinal scent I’d learned was eucalyptus.
Overflowing buckets lined one wall. Roses in shades of red and white—those I knew. Carnations. Some kind of purple flower I couldn’t identify, and a dozen others I’d probably seen in my books but couldn’t name on sight.
The opposite wall held bins of fresh greenery. Pine and cedar—easy. And more seeded eucalyptus, their floppy branches draped over the edges.
The air was cool but not cold, and condensation beaded on the inside of the window behind her worktable, which dominated the center of the room, its surface a mess of ribbon spools, wire cutters, and floral foam, three half-finished arrangements sitting in the center of it all.
But what caught my attention was the far wall—the one she’d mentioned before with the suspicious stain. She’d tried to cover it with a print, but the frame was askew, revealing a blotch that did, indeed, look deeply concerning.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Holly said, following my gaze. “Probably.”
“Have you had someone look at it?”
“I’ve hadmelook at it, and I’ve decided ignorance is bliss.” She grabbed a spray bottle from the table and misted one of the arrangements. “The building inspector would probably disagree, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“But it might hurt you,” I pointed out, worried it might be black mold.
“I’ll worry about that when the wall actually caves in.” She grabbed a rag from the table and wiped her hands, waving off my concern. “So, Luke Byron, what brings you by? Did Ava forget to pass along some information? DidI?”
“No. No, nothing like that.” I shoved my hands in my pockets, then pulled them out and crossed my arms. That felt too defensive, so I dropped them to my sides. That felt even worse. Like I was a mannequin. Back in the pockets they went. “I wanted to order some arrangements. For Christmas.”
Her eyebrows lifted with interest. “Oh? For your house? Before the Candlelight Walk, I mean?
“No. For …”
God, why was this hard?
“For Mistletoe Bay General Hospital. And Sunrise Senior Living—the nursing home out by Hobson’s Landing.” The words came faster now, tripping over each other. “I used to do this every year back in San Francisco, and I want to keep it going. Large arrangements for the common areas, smaller ones for individual rooms. Something festive that makes people feel less alone during the holidays, you know?”
Her lips parted slightly, and a warmth I hadn’t ever seen from her before filled her expression. She looked at me like she was seeing me differently. Like she was seeing me anew, and I wasn’t what she expected.
“Luke, that’s …” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice had grown soft. “That’s really kind.”
“It’s not. Not really. I wish I could do more. It’s just flowers.” I shifted my weight, suddenly hyper-aware of how I was standing, where my hands were, and whether I was making eye contact or avoiding it. The back of my neck felt incredibly hot.
“It’s not ‘just flowers.’” She held my gaze, and I suddenly forgot how to breathe. “It matters. Trust me.”
We stood there, neither of us moving. The space between us felt charged, like the air right before lightning strikes. I could hear my own heartbeat, and could see the faint pulse at the base of her throat.
The longer the silence stretched, the more I told myself to speak. But my brain had gone offline, and all I could think about was the fact that she hadn’t looked away yet.
Neither had I.
“So,” she said finally, her voice slightly breathless. She turned toward her work table—too quickly, almost like she’d been released from a spell—and grabbed a notebook. Her hands fumbled with it before she found a blank page.“Um. Right. Orders. That’s … that’s what we’re doing.”
A small, slightly hysterical laugh escaped her, and she pressed her lips together like she was trying to get control of herself. She shook her head, blew out a breath, and then met my eyes again. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Colors? Style? Budget?”
“Whatever you think is best,” I said. “I trust your judgment.”
She stopped, her pen poised over the paper. There was a bit of playfulness in her gaze now, a hint of mischief that made my stomach flip. “Dangerous words, Mr. Byron. I could take complete advantage of you.”
