“Fine.” I sigh. “That one also gets an asterisk.”
He laughs. “I’m sensing a theme.”
“Earn your asterisks,” I say. “That’s how this works.”
“Maybe stickers next time?”
I can tell by his tone he’s teasing, but I’m not biting. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He leans back against the counter, his eyes sparkling and a tiny dimple appearing when he smiles. I hadn’t noticed thatbefore. But right now, he’s looking at me with something like respect. “You’re really organized.”
“I have to be.”
“For Theo,” Sawyer says gently. Not assuming. Just stating it like a fact he’s already privy to.
I nod. “For Theo. And for this place. And for…” I trail off, because listing everything I’m holding together feels dangerously close to admitting how heavy it all is. How I’m one bad month away from losing everything. How the supplier invoice isn’t the only bill I’m juggling. How Theo’s birthday is coming up fast and I have exactly seventy-three dollars in my savings account.
Once again, he doesn’t push. Instead, he looks around the shop again. At the plants, the stationery, the sunlight, the careful order under the charm. His gaze lingers on the empty space near the window—the spot where I used to have three fiddle leaf figs before I had to return them to the supplier because I couldn’t afford to keep them in stock.
He doesn’t comment. But I wonder if he sees it. The gaps. The places where this shop should be thriving but is barely surviving.
Then his gaze comes back to me.
“I know this probably isn’t what you asked for,” he says. “Me, showing up here with a schedule, a learning curve, and a natural tendency to knock into things.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I say.
“But,” he adds, quieter now, “I’m not here to make your life harder. I swear.”
There’s something in his voice when he says it. Not performative. Not polished. It’s earnest.
I study him for a long second. The way he’s standing like he’s trying not to take up too much space. The way he hasn’t once touched anything he wasn’t invited to. The way he listened when I said no. The way he blushed when Charlie congratulated him, like praise still catches him off guard.
While I’m now feeling like this won’t be as hard as I thought, eight weeks of a hockey player in my carefully balanced world is a lot. Eight weeks of explaining, negotiating, trusting—things I’ve learned to ration carefully.
But standing here, coffee warming my hands, paperwork spread out between us like a tentative truce, I realize something about myself. I don’t feel braced for impact. I feel curious.
And maybe I also feel dangerously, desperately hopeful. If he really can bring people in, if this partnership actually works, then maybe I can save this place. Maybe I can give Theo the birthday he wants. Maybe I won’t have to choose between paying the electric bill and keeping plants in stock.
“All right,” I say, squaring the papers and meeting his eyes. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Stockton.”
His smile is slow this time. It’s not teasing, nor cocky, but I’ll be darned if it isn’t disarming.
“Deal,” he says. “I’ll try not to mess it up.”
I believe him, which feels like the bigger risk. I take a moment to glance around the shop myself, see if there’s anything I can get Sawyer to help with while he’s here today, when the bell over the door chimes.
I glance up automatically—customer service smile already forming—and freeze.
A woman in her mid-thirties stands in the doorway, dressed too well for a Monday morning plant shop visit. Tailored blazer. Professional camera bag over her shoulder. The kind of purposeful energy that makes my stomach drop.
“Hi!” she says brightly, stepping inside. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m looking for Juliette Gianelli?”
My mouth goes dry. “That’s me.”
She extends a hand, smile widening. “Melissa Torres, Alexandria Gazette. I heard through a little birdie that Sawyer Stockton’s taking part in a team-and-city community outreach here?” Her eyes land on Sawyer, and her expression shifts intosomething that’s half-recognition, half-delight. “And there he is! This is perfect.”
I don’t move. Can’t move. My brain is trying to process what’s happening, but it feels like the words are arriving through water. Dramatic? Yes. But I have my reasons.
