The overhead shop lights come on automatically with our movement, bright, practical, and a little too fluorescent, but it’s a light source.
I still feel the faint whisper of Beau’s hand brushing mine as we walked, how gently it happened, how unintentional it seemed. But it left something behind. A mark on my sensory memory. Beau’s touch was nothing like my ex, Grayson Fairchild’s’, touch, which always felt as though he was shaping me into something I wasn’t.
Beau’s touch was kind, comforting. Offering mesomething, not taking. And the way the touch of his skin on mine lingers scares me a little more than I want to admit.
The silence between us isn’t awkward. I picture us encircled by a paper link chain, the kind I used to make as a child, something barely holding together the hint of a connection that’s beginning to form.
Peaches finishes her sniffing expedition, does a loop around a potted fern, then curls up on the welcome mat with a sigh loud enough to rival an old man settling into his recliner.
That’s when I spot it, half-tucked under the door.
A glossy business card.
I stoop to pick it up, frowning. No name on the front, just gold-embossed swirls and a waft of floral perfume so fake it stings my nose. I flip it over.
“Loved your centerpieces. Pity about your score.”
The handwriting loops dramatically, and the glitter pen sparkles so brightly I almost think that it’s trying to blind me on purpose.
I hold it up for Beau to see. “Guess who.”
He doesn’t even blink. “Team Let’s Go Viral.”
“Ten glitter points to Gryffindor,” I say, tossing it onto the counter.
Beau’s mouth twitches as he tries not to smile, but the corners give him away. Not a laugh, not quite, but something milder. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.
He chuckles quietly. I breathe in the familiar scent of eucalyptus and roses, letting the smell guide me to the switch on the wall next to the mini cooler. I flip it, and the pendant lights I installed glow to life, warm and amber-gold, casting a softer hue over everything than the fluorescents. I’ve always preferred their ambiance,not as close to the scrutiny of being under a microscope, more similar to being in the pages of a picture book.
Beau’s eyes sweep the unfamiliar room. He has rarely come into Botaniqûe.
“Place looks good,” he says.
“Tell that to the ribbon explosion in the back,” I say with a weak grin. “It’s been quite the week.”
He shrugs out of his jacket and starts sweeping up dust from the floor. We fall into a natural rhythm, no need for instructions. Our steps sync up without trying, as though this is action we’ve choreographed together. There’s an unspoken ease in how we move around each other—passing scissors, sliding aside buckets, falling into a shared tempo without thinking.
Peaches snoozes softly near the door, staking her claim on the whole storefront.
As I gather up scattered stems and dropped leaves from the workbench, I find myself staring at a broken rose—pale blush, barely holding on. It reminds me of the flowers I chose for my own wedding ceremony, blush-colored roses arranged with Cafe au Lait dahlias, sweet peas, and jasmine vines.
But the wedding never happened.
My fingers still for a second. Maybe it’s this whole fake dating thing, or maybe it’s Beau being near. But I find myself saying, quieter than I planned, “I used to believe that I could have love, the kind that the matchmaking festival is supposed to bring about. You know, the forever kind.”
Beau looks over but doesn’t say anything. His silence invites more than any question could.
“I was supposed to get married a few years ago,” I continue, gently placing the wilting bloom into the compost bin. “But two weeks before the wedding, he backed out.Said I was too much: too emotional, too messy, too over-the-top, too me.”
I glance at Beau, expecting some kind of reaction, but his expression is kind. Thoughtful.
Beau’s hand slows slightly as he organizes the spools, and he tilts his head. “That’s…a lot.”
“Grayson...I called him Gray.”
I keep my voice light, nothing more than swapping trivia facts.
“He had a five-year plan. I was year four.”
