She softens immediately and squeezes my arm. “You can do this, Em. And if you panic, I’ll be ten minutes away with my phone ready. But you’re not running this time.”
“Comforting,” I mutter, but my heart does a tiny, traitorous flutter.
She laughs. “It should be.”
And then she slips out, leaving me with a broken shelf, a box of tiny clay lovers, and a heart that refuses to calm down no matter how many deep breaths I take.
Chapter 7
Alex
Ipull up behindthe shop just before four, switch off the engine and head round to the back of my Range Rover. The oak boards I brought with me catch the afternoon light, the grain dark and smooth after the few frantic hours I spent in the workshop earlier. They were only offcuts from a farmhouse job, but after I’d trimmed, sanded and stained them they look like they are made for her shop.
I grab the tin of moss-green paint as well. I tried a few shades before settling on this one, the one that matched the picture I had in my head the moment Emma described her idea.
It probably was more effort than a simple favour required. But I stopped pretending it was just a favour about three planks in.
The bell above the florist door chimes when I step inside.
“I’ll be there in a moment,” Emma calls from the back.
Her voice is soft, not quite nervous.
“No rush,” I say. “I’m just bringing the remaining bits in.”
Silence. I can’t help but grin because I am sure she’s definitely plotting escape routes.
I make three trips from the pickup, carrying wood, drill, fixings and paint. When I close the door, she finally appears.
She walks in with that quiet, slightly unsure energy she seems to carry everywhere, and for some reason it pulls my focus straight to her.
“Hey,” I say.
She gives me a small, cautious smile. The kind you only earn after a long battle.
“Hi.”
There’s a tiny fleck of glitter on her cheek, the sort that clings to you for days. Before I can think better of it, I reach out and brush it away with my fingertip.
She startles at the light touch.
Too quickly.
Her heel catches the edge of a flower bucket and the whole thing wobbles like it’s considering a dramatic exit. I grab for her, but she jerks back in panic and sets off a chain reaction worthy of a comedy sketch.
One bucket tips.
Then another.
Then the next three, like a floral avalanche.
Water sloshes across the floor, tulips spinning like tiny pastel casualties, and Emma goes down in the middle of it with an undignified little squeak that would be funny if it didn’t punch straight into my chest.
“Whoa—hang on.” I get to her before the last bucket finishes its slow-motion topple and slide an arm round her waist, lifting her gently to her feet. “You alright?”
Her hands land on my chest, warm through my T-shirt. She smells faintly of roses and eucalyptus, and something softer I can’t place but already want to.
“I—sorry—oh god,” she stammers, cheeks blazing.
