“Succulent,” I say automatically.
“What?”
“You said ‘another kind of fern’ but you should say something opposite, like a succulent.”
“A succulent, huh?” His smile goes soft at the edges. “See? I’m learning already."
Darn it. I’m not supposed to find him charming.
“Fine,” I hear myself say, even though every instinct is screaming at me to throw him out. “You can stay.”
“Really?”
“For now. But we’re establishing rules.”
“I love rules,” he says with a nod. “Give ‘em to me.”
Despite everything—the panic, the financial pressure, the way my son is currently peeking around the corner with hearts in his eyes—I almost smile. Almost.
“Rule one,” I say firmly. “You don’t touch anything unless I explicitly tell you to.”
Sawyer nods solemnly. “Got it.”
“Rule two: You show up on time. Not early. Not late. On time.”
“Noted.”
“Rule three—” I pause, trying to figure out what rule three should be, and Sawyer leans against the counter—carefully, not touching any plants—and waits.
“Rule three,” I finally say, “is that when this doesn’t work out, you leave quietly and don’t make it my problem.”
Something shifts in his expression. The amusement fades, replaced by something more serious. More real.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “I hear you on all of these. No touching, be on time, and that last point…well, just know I plan on making sure this works out here, so maybe let’s not give this whole scenario any more negative energy, yeah?”
We stare at each other. I think he just subtly dug at me and called me negative, but as a single mother I’m gonna let that slide. This time. Around us, the shop is still and quiet except for Vivaldi drifting through the speakers and the sound of papers shuffling while Theo continues to pretend he’s not eavesdropping from the back of the room.
Charlie, thankfully, clears his throat. “I’m going to check on the rosemary,” he announces before he disappears, leaving us alone. Bless his heart. That’s twice today I forgot he was in the room.
Sawyer shifts his weight. “So. When do I start?”
I look at the man who’s just crashed into my carefully controlled life like a hockey puck through glass—smiling, unbothered, already standing in the wreckage like it’s exactly where he belongs. At the hopeful tilt of his mouth. The way he looks at me like we’re old friends being reintroduced after years apart instead of two strangers one bad decision away from disaster.
And at the tiny, traitorous part of me that wants to believe him when he says it’s all going to work out.
“We start,” I say slowly, because caution is my love language, “after the weekend. This coming Monday. Can you do that?”
His grin returns—bright, devastating, and wildly unconcerned with my emotional survival. “Deal.”
I watch him walk away, my shop still standing, my heart absolutely not, and realize two things at once.
One: I’ve just agreed to let a professional hockey player into my life.
Two: Monday suddenly feels way too close.
CHAPTER 2
SAWYER
