I’d told myself it didn’t matter. That I was focused on the shop. That I had bigger priorities.
That I wasn’t lonely.
Lying was so easy when you did it gently.
The bell chimed again, sharper this time, and I looked up with my customer smile ready.
Some people stepped into a room and blended right in. Others carried themselves with a quiet confidence that alteredthe space around them, like gravity pulling everything just a little closer.
She walked in like she belonged wherever she stood.
Tall. Elegant. Skin warmed by sunlight. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek, effortless style that made her cheekbones impossible to ignore. She wore a pale blouse and fitted pants that looked simple until you realized how perfectly they fit, like they’d been chosen with intention rather than effort.
She didn’t rush. She didn’t hesitate. She took in the shop with a calm, assessing glance, as if she already understood what mattered.
And somehow, without meaning to, I found myself standing straighter.
“Hi,” I said, voice softer than usual. “Welcome.”
The woman’s gaze lifted, met mine, and something about it felt … attentive. Like she wasn’t just seeing the shop. She was seeing me.
“Joy McKinley?” she asked.
My pulse jumped. “Yes. That’s me.”
“I’m Portia Dane.” She said it like it was a simple fact, not a title that carried weight. She stepped closer to the counter, her perfume mixing with the florals in the air—something expensive and clean, like rain on stone. “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”
“Oh.” I smiled, a little quick, a little reflexive. “Of course. We’re—well, we’re open.” I gestured vaguely at the shop like that explained everything. “How can I help?”
Portia’s mouth curved, just slightly, like she found my nerves more endearing than inconvenient. “I’m looking for flowers,” she said, glancing past me toward the cooler. “But not just any flowers.”
That, at least, was familiar ground. I relaxed a notch, letting my hands rest on the counter instead of fidgeting with ribbon spools. “You came to the right place.”
She stepped closer, studying the arrangements on display with a thoughtful expression, not the distracted skim most people gave before pulling out their phones. She noticed details—the texture of the greenery, the way colors shifted from one bloom to the next.
“I’ve heard your family grows most of these yourselves,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, warmth blooming in my chest. “Our farm’s on Wadmalaw Island. We grow seasonally—mostly heirloom varieties. What we don’t grow, we source locally, when we can.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Impressive.”
I ducked my head, smiling. Compliments never quite knew where to land with me, but this one felt earned. “Thank you.”
She turned back to me then, leaning her hip lightly against the counter like she had all the time in the world. “I’m planning a wedding.”
My heart did a small, happy flip. Weddings were my favorite—not because of the drama or the gowns or the Pinterest boards, but because they were hopeful. People came in believing in something. I liked being part of that.
“That’s exciting,” I said. “Do you have a date?”
“Soon,” she said. “And not here.”
“Oh.” I tilted my head. “Destination?”
“Montana.”
The word landed heavier than I expected. Big sky. Open land. So far from Charleston’s humidity and moss-draped oaks that it felt like another country entirely.
“I want to bring a little piece of Charleston with me,” Portia continued. “Something living. Something that feels … rooted.”
