And something gives way in my heart—a splintering in the place I’ve kept guarded the longest, where trust used to live before I stopped believing people could be trusted.
The town puts itself to sleep in layers—first the music fades, then the laughter, then the shuffling of feet over gravel. I walk slower than usual, cutting down the side street past the empty post office, the bookstore dark behind its lace-curtained windows.
I don’t know why I’m stalling. Maybe I’m trying to sort through what happened. Or maybe I don’t want the day to end yet, not if it means going back to being alone with my own silence.
I stroke the soft petals of the rose I’m carrying in my pocket. I spontaneously bought it at the market before it closed. I could’ve left it on a bench or forgotten it in my truck, but something kept me holding onto it carefully. Something small and hopeful.
The air smells like wet pavement and pine needles.
A few minutes later, I walk past Botaniqûe. The flower shop’s windows are dark, but there’s something alive in the air— the scent of roses, citrus and whatever magic Maisie wears with her everywhere. I’d recognize it anywhere now. She’s been here recently.
I slow to a stop, hand lifting to my flannel. I tap the front pocket feeling the stem and further up the soft petals of the rose.OK. Still have it.I hadn’t known what I was going to do with it. Didn’t even realize it meant that much to me, until now.
Coral. Not red. Bold enough to say something. Subtle enough not to shout it.
I set it on the windowsill close to the door. No note. Just a small gesture I hope she understands. I linger a second longer than I should, staring at the quiet door as if it might answer me.
I think about all the times this week I wanted to say something genuine, and didn’t. The jokes were easier. The silence, safer.
But Maisie Quinn? She never waits for safe.
So, I leave the rose, hoping it says what I can’t yet: that her timing, her bravery, her ridiculous one-liners, wild hands and quick saves—they’re under my skin now.
And if she sees this rose in the morning and smiles even a little…that will be enough.
A thank you I don’t know how to say.
And maybe a beginning I haven’t dared to hope for until now.
Chapter 7
Rumors and Roses
Maisie
As I prepare for work in the morning, the memory of Beau’s humming two nights ago is triggered the second I unlock the shop. The tune still clings to me like the last hint of a daydream, sweet and elusive. I don’t want to let go of it yet.
And then I see it.
Balanced carefully on the broad windowsill, nearly flush with the sidewalk and catching the first slant of morning light, lies a single rose. No note. No wrapper. Just one perfect coral bloom, its stem tucked into a damp paper towel and plastic wrap, held on by the twist of floral wire, as if whoever left it wanted to keep it fresh long enough for me to find it.
My breath catches. My pulse skips. I stand frozen for a split second, feeling the air shift—cool brushing against my cheeks, the breeze prickling my arms with curiosity. The hushed morning is waiting for me to understand what this means.
I bend to scoop it off the low windowsill, skimming my fingertips over the velvety-soft petals. I’m afraid to admit, but someone left this for me. The rose is chilled from the night air. Its bloom full and unmarred, and my hands tremble.
It’s the kind of gesture that stops time, simple, yes, but so deliberate. Propped carefully on the sill, not tossed or forgotten, but placed with care.
A thank you, maybe. Or a beginning. Or both.
I press the stem to my chest for a second. My heartbeat knocks against it, bold and a little off-kilter, as though it already knows what my brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
Did he…?
I bring the rose inside, set it gently in a mason jar vase on the counter, and convince myself to get to work. But I move through the morning on instinct alone—cutting stems, arranging blossoms, trying not to analyze the warmth still growing in my chest.
Peaches, once again sprawled on the welcome mat, startles awake, and her head jerks up as the bell above the door jingles, announcing Pen’s arrival. She slides a stack of cinnamon rolls across the flower shop counter and whispers, “Word around the diner this morning is the Over-actors tried to stage a spat at the post-potluck wrap-up. There were tears, a shoe toss, and someone quoted from Shakespeare.”
It’s the kind of news that would usually make me laugh, but this morning, it stings. Because while the other couples are putting on a grand show, I can’t help but wonder if Beau and I are still faking our budding relationship. It was our agreement, after all.
