“No,” he said, and something in his expression shifted. Still guarded, but with a warmth flickering underneath. “It's not a no.”
I stuck out my hand before I could overthink it. “Deal?”
Holden looked at my hand for a moment, then took it. His palm was warm, callused from work. His fingers wrapped all the way around mine, and the grip was firm but careful, like he was conscious of his own strength.
Neither of us let go.
“We should probably—” I started.
“Yeah.” But he still didn't release my hand. Instead, he shifted his grip, lacing his fingers through mine. The gesture was tentative, almost a question.
“No time like the present,” I said. “For practice.”
“Practice.” His mouth quirked. “Right.”
Our hands rested on the table between us, fingers intertwined. Through the window, I could see people walking past on Main Street. Anyone glancing in would see us sitting together, holding hands, looking for all the world like a couple.
“You hungry?” Holden asked. “Mags makes a great club sandwich.”
“Starving, actually.” I'd been too nervous about the dog handoff to eat this morning. “But I should be buying. You already got the coffee.”
“Next time.” He stood, keeping hold of my hand until the last possible second, letting our fingers slide apart. The loss of contact felt sharper than it should have. “Turkey or ham?”
“Turkey. And thank you.”
He nodded and headed for the counter. I watched him go, watched Mags's eyebrows rise when she spotted him, watched her gaze cut to me and then back to Holden with naked curiosity. By tonight, half of Prospect Ridge would know Holden Hutchinson had been holding hands with the new guy at the Copper Kettle.
The arrangement sat on the table in front of me. Ranunculus and eucalyptus, soft peach and cream. I touched one of the petals.
You're more than enough. Remember that.
Chapter Three
Holden
The bell over the door rang at a quarter to nine.
I looked up from the arrangement I was working on, a sympathy piece for the Harrison funeral: white lilies, soft ferns, a few stems of white stock for texture. Sympathy work was my comfort zone. Clear purpose, clear meaning. The family wanted peace and dignity, and I knew how to give them that. No ambiguity. No second-guessing whether I'd chosen right.
Jamie stood in the doorway with a coffee cup in each hand and a smile so wide it made my face flush.
“I brought fuel.” He held up one of the cups. “There's extra cream and sugar in the bag, but Mags said you like it black, that you're a purist.”
“Mags talks too much.”
He crossed the shop and set the cup on my workbench, his gaze moving across the space. Today he wore a rust-colored sweater that looked soft, sleeves pushed up past his wrists despite the January cold. His jeans had a hole starting at the knee, and his sneakers were beat-up Converse that had no business being worn in a Colorado winter.
“It's bigger than I realized,” he said. “From the outside, I mean. There's a whole back room?”
“Storage. Workroom. The coolers take up most of it.”
“Can I see?”
I led him through the doorway. The back room ran ten degrees colder than the front, the coolers humming their constant low drone along the far wall, glass doors fogged with condensation. Buckets of stems lined the work counter: roses in various stages of opening, lilies with their stamens still intact, eucalyptus waiting to be sorted. The green smell of cut stems hung in the air, sharp and clean.
My favorite smell in the world. I breathed it in without thinking.
“This is where I do arrangements.” I gestured at the workbench, the ribbon spools arranged by color, the wire cutters and floral tape within easy reach. “Coolers keep everything fresh. Storage is through there.”
