Jake studied the list, nodding as he reviewed the route. “Got it. Highway 7, not the back road.”
“GPS will get you there if you get turned around,” I added. “Just keep the arrangements out of direct sun, and don't leave them in a cold car too long.”
“Yes, sir.” Jake grabbed a carrying flat from the stack by the door—sturdy cardboard with cutouts sized for the crystal vases—and loaded the first batch from the cooler. Three dozen red roses, the classic Valentine's order. He slid each vase into place with more care than I'd expected, checking that they were secure before lifting the flat. “I'll be back in an hour. Maybe ninety minutes if traffic's bad near the resort.”
Holden watched him go, something like approval flickering across his face. “His aunt said he's a hard worker.”
“He seems like a good kid.”
“We'll see.” But his voice had lost the edge I'd expected. He was already turning back to the workbench, mind on the next task.
The first customer arrived at nine, right on schedule. A man in a rumpled suit, clearly on his way to work, picking up a dozen red roses he'd ordered last week. Then a woman with three kids in tow, collecting centerpieces for a family dinner. Then a teenager, nervous and blushing, buying a single rose for a girl in his class.
By ten, we'd settled into a rhythm. Holden in the back building arrangements for tomorrow’s big wedding, his hands moving through stems with that particular focus I'd never get tired ofwatching. Me at the register, handling the steady stream of customers picking up their orders, and a few walk-ins who just remembered what day it was.
Prospect Ridge wasn't Denver. We weren't seeing hundreds of customers. But the bell chimed every few minutes, the phone rang between, and the whiteboard behind me emptied name by name as orders went out the door. The chaos had a shape to it, a pattern I was starting to recognize. This was Holden's element. This was what he'd trained his whole life to do.
I found joy in the small moments between rushes. The satisfaction of wrapping a bouquet without tearing the paper. The way customers' faces lit up when they saw their arrangements. The older woman who cried when she picked up the roses for her late husband's grave, and let me hold her hand while she composed herself. This was what flowers did, I realized. They allowed people to feel deeply. Not just me, but for everyone who walked through that door.
Around ten, Holden emerged from the back carrying a large paper bag, the top folded over but not sealed. Pink and red and white peeked through the gap.
“What's that?” I asked.
“Rose petals, close to a thousand if you can believe it. Ordered them last week.” He crossed to the tall oak cabinet by the front door, the one that held extra vases and ribbon spools, and set the bag on top, pushing it back from the edge. “For the flower girl baskets tomorrow.”
I whistled. “That's a lot of petals.”
“Three flower girls. Mrs. Redding said they're very enthusiastic.” He dusted his hands on his apron. “Needed them out of the way. We'll be tripping over everything by noon.”
Jake came back at eleven, cheeks red from the cold, grinning like he'd conquered Everest. “No wrong turns,” he announced,grabbing another batch without being asked. “Mrs. Morrison tipped me five bucks.”
“Don't let it go to your head,” Holden said, but there was warmth underneath.
By the third run, Jake started asking questions about the arrangements themselves. Which flowers paired well together. Why certain colors worked for certain occasions. Holden answered in clipped sentences, but he answered, and that was something.
“He's curious,” I said, watching Jake through the window as he loaded the van with the same careful attention he'd shown all morning. “That's good.”
“Curious and competent aren't the same thing.” But Holden's mouth curved, just slightly. “He hasn't dropped anything yet. That's more than I managed my first week.”
The morning blurred into afternoon. Saturday Valentine's Day meant heavier foot traffic than a midweek holiday would have brought. I handled customers while Holden worked in the back, and we fell into that rhythm that had become second nature over the past weeks. His hand on my lower back when he needed to pass behind me. My shoulder brushing his arm when I ducked into the back for more wrapping paper. Small touches that said everything words couldn't.
Around two, the pace slowed enough for me to breathe.
I leaned against the counter, watching Holden finish a centerpiece for tomorrow's wedding. Lilies and roses, soft and romantic, catching the afternoon light through the front windows. His sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, forearms flexing as he adjusted each stem.
After today, our arrangement was done. He could thank me for my help and shake my hand and that would be it. Back to his quiet shop, his quiet life, his quiet apartment above me right now.
I didn't want quiet. Fuck quiet.
I wanted this. Wanted him.
But did he?
He looked up and caught me staring.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head, but I was smiling. “Just thinking we make a good team.”
