I don’t answer. I just look back at my checklist, heart doing something unfamiliar and fluttery in my chest.
Because apparently, along with extra soil and hand wipes, I’m now responsible for caring whether a hockey player with too much charm and not enough fear makes a good impression.
A few minutes later, when the bell over the door jingles, my stomach drops.
I don’t need to look. I know. My body knows. The same way it knows when a delivery is late or a payment hasn’t cleared or something important is about to go sideways.
“Please tell me this counts as after closing,” Sawyer says.
I turn.
He’s just inside the shop, jacket slung over one shoulder, hair still damp like he’s come straight from the rink. He’s holding two coffee cups, steam curling into the air like he planned this entrance.
Of course he brought coffee.
“I’m glad we’re doing this tonight.” He pauses, eyes flicking to my face, then softens his grin. “Coach always makes us do a walkthrough before a game. You don’t wing it when people are watching.”
Something tightens in my chest. I take the coffee he offers, mostly so my hands have something to do. “This isn’t a game.”
“Sure it is,” he says. “Different uniforms. Same pressure.”
Charlie makes a low, amused sound from the back, but I don’t look at him. My attention is locked on Sawyer.
“I don’t want this to go late, so we’re going to jump right in.” I grab a plant from the counter—a healthy pothos, long vines spilling over the edge—and place it carefully in his hands. My fingers brush his wrist. I pull back faster than necessary.
“You’ll stand here,” I say, positioning him near the worktable. “You’ll hold the plant. You’ll explain basic care, then repot it, showing folks how easy it is. Nothing fancy. Clear. Confident.”
He nods, focused. “Got it.”
I step back, arms folding tight across my chest.
This shouldn’t matter to me.
So why does it feel like I’m watching him take a penalty shot?
Sawyer looks down at the plant. “Okay, so this philodendron?—”
I wince.
“—does great in indirect light?—”
“It’s a pothos,” I blurt.
He stops. Looks up. “It is?”
“Yes.”
He glances back at the leaves, then at me. “Huh. They look…related.”
“They are not.”
“Okay,” he says quickly. “Noted. Pothos. Friendly. Chill. Not a philodendron.”
I press my lips together, fighting the urge to smile. Not yet. I’m still nervous. I don’t know why, but I am.
“Try again,” I say.
He exhales, resets, then reaches for another plant without asking. A small barrel cactus.
