Portia didn’t turn. “Of course, she does.”
The way she said it—simple, certain—did something strange to my chest. Like being believed in without having to prove it twice.
Portia set the stems down carefully and folded her arms. “Now,” she said, “timing. How quickly can you harvest and prep for flight?”
I answered without hesitation, because I’d already been running numbers in my head.
“We’ll need a schedule based on the wedding day and the flight time,” I said. “Ideally we cut within twenty-four hours of the event, but we can cut a little earlier depending on the varieties and keep them in controlled cold storage. If your plane can be temperature controlled, even better.”
“It can,” Portia said.
“Then we can do this beautifully,” I said, and felt my smile widen. “We’ll pack everything in insulated boxes, hydration tubes for stems, cushioning for delicate blooms. We can also build some pieces here that travel assembled—like smaller bud vases—but larger installations would be better constructed on site.”
Portia’s eyes gleamed with approval. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
I swallowed. “Do you … have a florist in Montana?”
“I have hands,” Portia said, and one corner of her mouth lifted. “And I have you.”
My pulse skipped.
I glanced around the room again, at the women watching from their sofas, the confidence draped over them like silk. I wondered, suddenly and sharply, what it meant to be part of this world.
To be a Dane wife. A Dane woman. Someone who belonged here.
It felt … far away. Like looking through glass.
Portia tapped the table lightly, pulling me back. “You’re nervous,” she observed.
I laughed softly, because there was no point pretending. “A little.”
“Good,” Portia said, entirely serious. “Nervous means you care. That’s why I came to you.”
I looked down at the flowers again—my flowers, my family’s work—and the pride rose up, steadying me.
“I do care,” I said quietly. “A lot.”
Portia’s gaze held mine, and for a moment the room seemed to fade around her.
“Then you’ll do well here,” she said.
Here.
The word settled into me, heavy and strange.
Before I could respond, laughter flared from the sofas again—something teasing, something intimate. A woman called Portia’s name like she wanted her attention.
Portia didn’t look back, but her shoulders shifted like she was aware of every person in the room at all times.
She leaned in one last time, her voice low.
“And Joy?” she said. “Don’t let this place intimidate you.”
My throat tightened. “I’m not?—”
Portia’s eyes narrowed slightly, amused. “You are. It’s fine. Everyone does their first time.”
Heat climbed my face again.
