Mrs. Carver leaned closer as I handed her the slip. “I hear that someone bought Castleton.”
I stilled for a fraction of a second and pasted a smile on my face. “So I’ve heard.”
“Seems a waste,” she said, pursing her lips. “That house should belong to someone who appreciates it.”
I swallowed my pride and chose diplomacy. “Perhaps he does. It isn’t our business. We’re going to welcome him and his daughter to Wildwood Meadows, because that’s what we do here. Isn’t it?”
“I suppose so. Thanks for the information on my hydrangeas.” She hitched her purse a little higher on her shoulder, patting the strap and ignoring my subtle dig at reminding her to mind her manners.
“Of course, Mrs. Carver. Have a great day,” I sighed as I straightened my apron.
Phiny waited until the door shut before she whirled on me. “You’re being weird.”
“I don’t care who bought what house,” I said, heading to the back of the shop where I had orders to fill. There were still hours to go before my afternoon helper would arrive, and I wanted to finish them.
She opened her mouth to respond, but another knock sounded against the glass door, making us both turn our heads. A man stood outside the glass with a bouquet cradled in his arms. I frowned and crossed to the door, pushing it open so the bell sang again. “We’re open,” I said automatically.
“Delivery for Wild Bloom,” he replied, shifting the arrangement slightly so I could see it better. My brows drew together. “Sage Holt?”
The bouquet was wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine, not cellophane or ribbon. The flowers inside were arranged in a loose, gorgeous spill that took my breath away. Someone had spent a fortune on them.
“What are these?” I asked. The guy gave me a flat look like I was being slow. “They’re … for me?” I asked. “From who?”
“If you’re Sage Holt, then they’re for you,” he checked the clipboard and cleared his throat. “No sender listed.”
Just like the first arrangement left on the counter, everything was eerily similar to what I used here in the shop. This arrangement was stunning, with jasmine vines woven through the center and a few sprigs of lemon balm softening the edges. There were beautiful blush-pink peonies with strawflowers nestled against them, and even garden roses.
Phiny appeared at my shoulder, and I felt her intake of breath. “Oh,” she murmured. “That’s very you.”
I signed for it with a distracted scrawl and took the bouquet into my hands, surprised by its weight. Carrying it to the counter and untying the twine so I could peel back the paper without tearing it, I pulled out the small card that had been tucked inside.
The card said:You notice everything. I notice you.
Phiny leaned in, looking at the sprawl of flowers. “That’s interesting.”
“It’s something,” I countered, though my pulse had ticked up in a way I didn’t appreciate. It was weird.
“Maybe it’s a thank-you from a client,” she suggested.
“Clients sign their names, and they don’t send flowers to a … flower shop. I have flowers.”
“Maybe they’re shy.”
Turning back to the bouquet, I studied it more closely. The garden roses were a variety I had ordered once from a specialty grower, a soft ivory that faded to the faintest green at the outer petals. The peonies were all expertly arranged, so they didn’t crowd one another. I traced a fingertip along a sprig of lemon balm and raised it to my nose, inhaling the sharp, citrus scent.
“It could be from one of your regulars.”
Snorting a little as I settled all the blooms back together, I scoffed, “I doubt it. These aren’t from around here, and they’re expensive. Very expensive. If someone ordered something like this from me, it’d be well over a hundred bucks.”
Phiny nudged my shoulder. “Maybe it’s from Rhodes.”
Feeling unsettled, I barked out a laugh that sounded more brittle than amused. “He does not seem like the type to send anonymous bouquets. If he did send flowers, he wouldn’t send a weird card like that.”
“You don’t know that,” she countered. “Maybe he has a secret cottage-core side.”
I lifted the bouquet and carried it toward the big farmhouse table in the back of the shop, where I usually assembled custom orders. The morning light streaming through the front windows caught the glass jars, refracting and sparkling over the wood floors.
I reached for one of my favorite old vases, a tall green glass one with a chipped lip that I had found at a yard sale last spring. I trimmed the stems slightly and slid the bouquet into the vase, adjusting the angle as I went.
