Micah:I know you do. Still here.
A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with air conditioning.
Still here.
It should have felt intrusive. Overbearing. Like someone stepping too far into a life that wasn’t theirs.
Instead, it felt like a net.
Not tightening.
Just … ready.
I shoved my phone back into my pocket and forced my attention back to the flowers. The event tonight was big—white and green, upscale, the kind of order that carried reputation with it. There was no room for distraction.
By midmorning, the shop was alive.
Britney breezed in late, cheeks flushed, ponytail crooked, apologizing before I could even open my mouth.
“I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” she said, dumping her bag behind the counter. “Traffic was insane, and my GPS?—”
“It’s fine,” I said, meaning it. “I need you on centerpieces. Hydrangeas first. Go heavier on the eucalyptus to balance what we lost.”
She blinked. “Already adjusted?”
“Already adjusted.”
She grinned. “You’re magic.”
I smiled back, but the word magic felt wrong. This wasn’t magic. This was control. This was contingency planning. This was me refusing to let something beautiful fail because of someone else’s mistake.
And still—my pulse skidded every time the bell chimed.
Late morning brought brides and planners and tourists who drifted in just to inhale and say things likeit smells so lovely in here, as if scent were something you could hang on the wall and keep forever.
Around noon, an older woman I didn’t recognize lingered too long near the front display.
She wasn’t browsing. She wasn’t scanning prices or arrangements or even really looking at the flowers.
She was looking at me.
I felt it before I saw it—the prickle at the back of my neck, the sensation of being assessed instead of observed.
She was polished in a way that felt deliberate. Dark hair. Neutral dress. Fancy shoes.
When our eyes met, she smiled.
It wasn’t unfriendly.
It also wasn’t warm.
“Can I help you?” I asked, stepping out from behind the counter.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m looking for Joy McKinley.”
“That’s me.”
Her gaze flicked over me—apron, hands a little dirty, braid slipping loose over my shoulder—and something unreadable crossed her face.
