ONE
DELILAH
The brass bell above the door of Petals & Promises chimes two notes—high then low, almost musical—and Jo and Mads burst through it like a hurricane made of shopping bags and enthusiasm.
Mom always said that bell was magic. That it sang differently for different customers. I’d thought she was being dramatic, but after months behind this counter, I’m starting to think she was right. Some entrances sound cheerful. Some sound resigned.
This one sounds like chaos.
“Delilah!” Jo’s arms are full of fabric swatches. “Please tell me you have coffee.”
“I have a flower shop.”
“Close enough. We need your brain.” Shedumps the swatches on my counter, narrowly missing the “Sorry For Your Loss” display. A satin swatch drapes itself over the sympathy card samples like it’s auditioning for a soap opera. “Wedding emergency.”
“What kind of emergency?”
“The kind where I’m getting married and I still can’t decide between ‘coastal romantic’ and ‘beachy boho’ and Dean is zero help because he thinks flowers are flowers.”
“Flowers are not just flowers,” I say, because this is a hill I will die on. I’ve been running this place since my mother handed me the keys and moved to Florida with suspicious speed, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nobody walks into a florist for the flowers. They come for the feelings. The courage. The words they can’t say out loud.
Mads rolls her eyes with familiar affection. “What she means is, we need centerpiece opinions. And possibly wine.”
“It’s ten in the morning,” I point out.
“And?” Jo raises an eyebrow.
I’ve known these women since I took over the shop and the book club adopted me like a stray cat they were determined to fatten up. In that time, I’ve learned that “wine” is Jo’s love language and “it’s ten in the morning” is not a valid counterargument. I’ve also learned that Jo plans her wedding the way some people wage war—with intensity, spreadsheets, and an alarming number of Pinterest boards.
“I don’t have wine. I have leftover coffee from this morning and some questionable tea bags that might be older than me.”
“We’ll take the coffee.” Mads is already perching on my workbench stool, pushing aside a pile of ribbon spools to make room. “Jo’s been up since five looking at Pinterest boards. She needs caffeine or she’ll start crying about napkin folds again.”
“I cried about napkin folds once. Once!”
“It was twice. And the second time you also cried about whether the sunset would match your color scheme.”
“The sunset is important, Mads!”
I pour the lukewarm coffee into mismatched mugs—one says “Bloom Where You’re Planted” and the other has a cartoon cactus in sunglasses that says “Looking Sharp,” a gift from Michelle—and slide them across the counter.
Jo wraps both hands around the Bloom mug and takes a sip without flinching, which tells me everything I need to know about her current stress level.That coffee has been sitting since dawn. It’s basically plant water at this point.
“Okay.” I pull out my notepad. “Coastal romantic versus beachy boho. Walk me through the vision.”
“Coastal romantic is elegant. Hydrangeas, roses, eucalyptus. Very ‘fairy tale wedding on the beach.’” Jo spreads out a swatch of dusty blue fabric. “Beachy boho is more relaxed. Wildflowers, pampas grass, that effortless look.”
“Which one feels more like you and Dean?”
Jo pauses. Actually considers the question instead of launching into another Pinterest reference, which might be a first. “Dean would probably be happy getting married in the fire station parking lot as long as I showed up.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s accurate.” She grins. “The man grunts more than he talks. But he’s mine, so I’ll keep him.”
“You two are disgusting,” Mads says, but she’s smiling into her coffee.
The love in Jo’s voice makes my chest ache in a way I don’t let myself examine too closely. I’m happy for her—genuinely, throat-tightening happy. But there’s a shadow underneath it that I’ve gotten very good at ignoring. The part of me that wonders whatit feels like to be that sure about someone. To sayhe’s minewithout any fear attached.
