She’s in my blood and I barely even know her yet. But that doesn’t matter. We have time.
Love at first sight is such a cliché, but that’s the funny thing about clichés—they’re only cliché until they aren’t. Then they’re so fucking real you don’t have words for it. So bone and blood deep your entire being resonates with the truth, the knowing. And it can be no other way.
Instalove, I believe it’s called. I know a few people it’s happened to, and they’re all doing well together, but I can tell from how skittish Holly is that I might have my work cut out with her.
I still can’t believe she was trying to move that huge-ass plant by herself. The rolling caddy alone was nearly twenty pounds. She’s strong though, I’ll give her that.
“That’s perfect, Jake,” she calls from outside her shop, and I can’t help grinning at the pure joy in her tone as I hold up her sign.
“You want to help do the honors?” I ask her, flattening the top edge of the decal to the glass to mark its final location.
“Could you?” she asks breathlessly. “I hadn’t anticipated how this would feel.”
I nod, understanding. I remember the day my first sign went up next door. Now the glass is etched with The Mountain Brew’s logo, but that very first sign was hand-lettered by my sister-in-law and had been shipped to me all the way from Montana. I’d placed it myself, going back and forth between the outside and inside, trying to get it in just the right spot. I’m glad I can help Holly with this.
I tell her so, and she rests her hands over her heart like someone at the end of a yoga class, still staring at her new sign, beaming.
I work quickly but thoroughly, making sure there are no air bubbles trapped between the decal and the glass. Whoever made her sign is skilled. They did a good job. It looks fantastic, and it suits her space. Just like she does.
Once I get it set, I join her on the sidewalk in front of her shop, admiring our handiwork.
“The Enchanted Florist,” I read aloud. “It’s perfect, Holly.”
She nods. I don’t miss the tears pooling in her eyes, but she’s smiling, so I know they’rehappy ones.
“Thank you, Jake.” Her voice is almost a whisper, thick with emotion, and I resist the urge to wrap my arm around her.
That woman needs a hug, but we've only just met. And judging by how fast she pulled away from our handshake earlier, I doubt she’d appreciate me holding her now. So, I just stand beside her in amicable silence, proudly surveying her new sign and her new space. Sending her support with my mind and my presence, hoping she feels it.
After several minutes, Holly murmurs something that sounds a lot like, “This is really happening,” and I smile again.
“Welcome to Pineberry Springs,” I tell her, wondering if I’m the first person to do so.
She’s smiling when she looks away from the sign, and her unguarded happiness does something to my heart. I swear, I think it just grew.
“Do you actually have pineberries here?” she asks, still smiling. “Or did someone choose that name thinking it related to all the pine trees in the area?”
I laugh at her question, resisting the urge to pull her into my arms. It’s not the first time someone has asked about the pineberries, but usually, they want to know what they are. Leave it to a florist to actually know.
“We do,” I tell her. “They grow wild around here in late spring and early summer. My best friend, Zander, knows all the best spots most of the locals skip. I’ll have him pick you some if you’d like.”
She nods. “I think I would, thank you. And thanks for your help today, Jake. I appreciate it. Oh, and the coffee. That was delicious.”
Her cadence changes when she talks about the coffee, her tone smoothing, drawing out the word delicious, and I can’t help grinning. It fills me with delight to know she enjoyed it that much.
“Any time,” I tell her honestly.
We gaze at each other for a moment, and I fight the urge to reach out and tuck the hair that’s escaped her ponytail back behind her ear. I’ll bet it’s soft, and I long to touch her, but I doubt she’d appreciate the gesture right now.
Something shifts in her green eyes, and I can see her shut down. It saddens me, but I don’t let that show. I know we just met, and I’m obviously older than she is. Probably by a lot. That has to be a deterrent to her, not to mention that we work together. Well, next door to each other, anyway.
“Would you like help with anything else?” I ask before she can start in with goodbyes. “I noticed the hooks on the counter. Are those for the plants along the wall?”
She steps away, closer to the shop. “I can’t put those in yet. I need a stud finder.”
I can’t help the smirk that crosses my face at her admission, but I’m damn proud of myself for not making the obvious joke. My friends tell me I have the worst jokes. Dad jokes, they call them. Which is a total misnomer, because I’m definitely not a dad. Never have been, and neverwill be.
Or, at least, I never thought I would be. I wonder what Holly thinks about kids?
