“It starts with the plant. Speaking of which,” he gestures with his chin to Beatrice. “Can I help you get that one inside?”
I nod, taking another sip before moving to help him.
Of course, he doesn’t need my help.
In one fluid movement, Jake crouches and picks up the whole thing, angling Beatrice effortlessly, and crossing the threshold without ruffling his perfect dark hair, snagging a leaf, or spilling a single piece of soil.
“Where do you want her?” he asks, straightening.
A warmth pervades my heart space at his inquiry, even while other parts of my body heated at the sight of this man so effortlessly carrying the enormous plant.
“Her name is Beatrice.” I don’t know why I tell him that, but it feelsright somehow.
“It’s nice to meet you, Beatrice,” Jake says into the mass of leaves. “Where would you like to live?”
I gasp as she responds to him, angling her upper leaves toward the main window, where I’d planned to put her. Jake doesn’t notice though, he’s watching me.
I’m not sure how I feel about that either. But I definitely don’t hate it, which is a problem.
“She’s going to go by the front window, next to the interior wall,” I say, trying to get myself back on track. “But we have to put the sign up first.”
“Great,” Jake says with more enthusiasm than he has any right to. “Where’s the sign? I’m happy to help.”
As he glances around the shop, I don’t have the heart to tell him Beatrice was going to help me hang the sign. Besides, I’m not even sure how to go about explaining that one.
“Is this it?” he asks, gesturing to the prepared decal sitting on the counter. “The Enchanted Florist, huh? I like it.”
His grin catches me off guard again, and this time I can’t help myself. My palm flattens over my racing heart, and I actually smile back.
“Thanks,” I say breathily, surprisingly thrilled at his response to my choice of names.
Yeah, I’ve got a big problem.
And I’m honestly not sure what I’m going to do about it.
The New Neighbor
Jake
Istill can’t get over my new work neighbor.
Holly is nothing like what I expected. For starters, she’s a woman, but not just any woman.
She’s it.
I know it in my bones.
At my age, there are some things you just know. And even though we just met, I know in the core of my being that Holly Sylvestra-Ashford is it for me.
I’ll never forget the moment I first laid eyes on her. She was out in front of my coffeehouse with a broom, sweeping as though she were dancing in some ancient and timeless ballroom, her entire being illuminated with unbridled joy. She’d had a green sweater on then that matched her eyes, but she may as well have been in a party dress for how radiant she looked.
Even the elements seemed to love her. The breeze caressing her skin and hair, the sun itself drawn into her orbit, haloing her. I’ll never forget the way the light played along the waves of her sandy-blonde ponytail, making it look like spun gold as it brushed against her elegant neck.
I’d wanted to know her immediately. Everything about her—who she is, her dreams, her desires. Even her fears, so that I could alleviate them. But mostly, I’d wanted to know her name. To hear the sound of her voice.
And now that I’ve heard her speak, I never want her to stop.
Holly.
