By eight a.m., my hands already smelled like a poem.
Roses and freesia, a whisper of eucalyptus, the faint green bite of stems I’d just trimmed. The shop was still waking up around me: the faint hum of the fridge units, the squeak of the front sign as the breeze pushed it, the distant whir of the espresso machine from across the street.
I could picture it without looking: the coffee shop windows fogged at the corners, the new "Kate’s Corner" decal still too clean against the glass, and behind it the tall, slightly awkward man with the sleeves rolled to his forearms who never quite knew where to look when I caught his eye.
But for once, my first bouquet of the day wasn’t for a customer.
It sat in the middle of my work table, a small, defiant arrangement of pale peach garden roses, white lisianthus, and tiny sprigs of waxflower. My favorite combination—soft, a little old-fashioned, the kind of bouquet that made people sigh without knowing why.
I hadn’t made it.
Someone else had. And that was the problem.
I ran my fingertips lightly over one of the petals, checking. Petal count: thirty-five. Garden variety. The stems were cut at the right angle, bound with twine in a careful spiral. Even the way the greenery fanned out—someone had studied my hands. Watched me work.
It was an exact copy of the anniversary bouquet I’d crafted for Mrs. Dalton yesterday afternoon.
Only this one had been waiting on my own doorstep when I came downstairs this morning. No delivery van, no note from one of the neighboring shops, just a neat brown paper wrap beaded with dew.
My stomach tightened, not unpleasantly. Curiosity and something else, something that had my chest a little too aware of its own movements.
I’d brought it inside, of course. I’d told myself it was because I couldn’t leave good flowers out there to wither, but that was a lie even I didn’t buy. I’d needed to see it up close. To prove to myself it really was what I thought.
Now, as the clock above the register ticked toward opening, I flipped the bouquet over again and checked the narrow strip of paper tied to the stems.
Just like before: a single initial.
"A."
"You’re frowning at that thing like it insulted your mother," a voice said behind me.
I jumped, the paper fluttering from my hand. "Nora. You’re early."
"And you left the door unlocked," she replied, ignoring my complaint as she always did. She slid behind the counter like she owned the place, her messy ponytail swaying. "Wow. Someone’s feeling romantic. Who’s the lucky—" She squinted at the bouquet. I watched her face change, sharp and amused. "Wait. Is that… Did you make this yesterday for the Daltons?"
"No," I said slowly. "That’s the problem."
Her dark eyes cut to me, then to the bouquet, then back. "Explain before I assume you have a floral-stalker and start making TikToks about it."
I blew out a breath and leaned my hip against the worktable, the cool metal edge grounding me. "It was on my doorstep when I came down. Wrapped, tagged, the whole thing. It's… basically identical."
"Okay, that’s either creepy, cute, or both." She plucked the strip of paper from the stem. "Just an initial?" She smirked. "A. I vote for Andrew."
Heat flickered under my skin before I could stop it. "We are not doing this," I warned.
"You literally named your shop ‘Language of Flowers’ and you think the universe is going to miss an opportunity like this?" She flapped the strip. "A mysterious bouquet, an initial, and a conveniently located tall drink of latte art across the street whose name starts with the same letter—"
"Lots of names start with A," I cut in. "And he barely knows me."
"He knows your coffee order," she countered. "And your preferred muffin. And the way you smile when you’re trying not to be seen."
My throat tightened. I looked away, focusing on the condensation gathering on the glass of the refrigerated case. "He’s just being nice. New business owners look out for each other."
Nora’s grin softened at the edges. She stepped closer, bumping my shoulder with hers. "You’re allowed to like that he’s nice, you know."
I said nothing. Liking people, really liking them, had never been the problem. Believing they would stay—that was the part that made my stomach twist.
The bell over the door jingled, high and bright. We both turned.
Andrew stood in the doorway, the morning light from the street framing him. For a second, he looked as surprised as we did, as if he’d stepped into the wrong shop.
Then his gaze found mine and everything in his expression smoothed, like someone laying a palm over ripples.
"Good morning," he said, voice a little deeper than strictly necessary. His hair was damp at the ends, as if he’d showered in a hurry, and his apron hung askew, one tie looser than the other. There was a faint smear of coffee on his forearm.
I should not have noticed that. Or the way his eyes flicked to the bouquet on my table and then back up, sharp, before he reined it into polite interest.
"Hey, Andrew," Nora drawled, already setting the bouquet down with exaggerated care. "We were just talking about you."
His ears turned the faintest shade of pink. "Oh. Uh. I—" He cleared his throat, adjusting his apron string with one hand. "That sounds ominous."
"Don’t worry," I said quickly, shooting Nora a warning look that she pretended not to see. "She says that to everyone. What's up?"
"I, um." He held up a small cardboard tray like a peace offering. The smell hit me first—dark roast and cinnamon. "I brought you the cinnamon latte you like. And a plain coffee for…" His gaze slid questioningly toward Nora.
"The best friend slash unpaid intern," she supplied. "I’ll take it."
"Nora," I hissed.
"What? It’s accurate." She took the cup and winked at Andrew. "First one’s free, next one costs a confession."
He laughed, short and startled, like he wasn’t used to being teased in public. "I, uh, can probably manage a loyalty punch card instead."
I reached for my cup, fingers brushing his as I took it from the tray. For half a second, maybe less, his hand stilled under mine.
A spark ran up my arm, ridiculous and uninvited.
"Thank you," I murmured, suddenly very interested in the lid. "You didn’t have to."
"I wanted to," he said, and there was something unguarded in it that made me look up.
His eyes were a warm, steady brown, the color of weak tea or worn leather, but focused like he was trying to memorize my reaction. It was too much and not enough at once.
Behind me, Nora made a delicate coughing sound that translated roughly to If you two don’t start recognizing you’re in a meet-cute, I will set something on fire.
"Actually," Andrew added, glancing around the shop, "there was another reason I came over. I’m… getting murdered by my wholesale order forms. Do you, um, have a minute?"
"Always a seductive opener," Nora muttered.
"Ignore her," I said, lips twitching. "What’s wrong with the forms?"
"They keep asking me to predict the future," he said helplessly. There it was again, that crooked half-smile that made him look unfairly approachable. "Like how many pounds of coffee beans I’ll go through next month, how many pastries, what time my soul will leave my body—"
I laughed before I could stop myself. His shoulders loosened at the sound.
"I figured since you’ve been doing this—" he waved a hand toward the fridges, the vases lined up like soldiers "—longer, you might have, I don’t know, sage wisdom? Or at least a rough spreadsheet?"
"Flatterer," Nora said. "She’s a sucker for people who respect her inventory management."
I rolled my eyes. "I can look over them on my lunch break," I told him. "But I have to prep a couple of morning orders first."
"Of course," he said quickly. "I didn’t mean now, I just—" His gaze snagged on the bouquet again, and something flickered behind his eyes. "That’s beautiful. New design?"
My fingers tightened around the coffee cup. Here we go.
"No," I said carefully. "It’s actually… a copy. Of something I made yesterday." I hesitated. I could feel Nora’s attention sharpening beside me, like a cat scenting drama. "It was on my doorstep this morning. With a note."
"A note," he repeated. His voice was neutral. Too neutral.
"An initial," Nora cut in when I hesitated. "Just an A. Lily thinks it’s a coincidence. I think it’s fate with good taste."
The corner of his jaw shifted, a barely there movement. If I hadn’t been staring, I would have missed it.
"That’s…" He cleared his throat. "That’s very thoughtful. Someone obviously appreciates your work."
The way he said someone made my skin prickle. It sounded like a word that wanted to be I but had lost its nerve.
"Probably just a grateful customer," I said too quickly. "Or a prank."
"A prank with garden roses?" Nora snorted. "If so, prank me next."
Andrew’s fingers brushed the edge of the table as if for balance. "Did the note say anything else?"
"Nothing helpful," I admitted. The memory of the tiny, looping handwriting sent a little shiver through me. I hadn’t told them about that part yet, the part where the words had seemed to lean toward me.
Thank you for putting in what people don’t know how to say.
One sentence. No signature beyond the A. As if the flowers themselves were supposed to be the message.
"Well," Nora said breezily, reading my hesitation accurately enough that I wanted to throw a chrysanthemum at her, "if Penny Marshall movies have taught me anything, it’s that anonymous notes plus flowers equal either true love or identity theft. Either way, I’m invested."
Andrew huffed a quiet laugh, but he didn’t look away from me. "Do you… like it? The bouquet, I mean."
"Professionally? It’s very good," I said. "Whoever made it knows what they’re doing."
"Personally," he pressed, so softly I almost missed the shift.
My chest gave an odd, traitorous flutter. I thought briefly of saying something deflecting, something light. But his gaze stayed steady, and for reasons I couldn’t quite name, it felt like a test of something I didn’t know I was taking.
"Personally," I said, "it’s exactly my taste."
Silence expanded between us for a beat, charged and fragile.
"Then," he said finally, "I’m glad someone realized that."
It was such a simple sentence, but it landed like a stone in a still pond, ripples touching little places inside me I usually kept off-limits.
The bell over the door rang again, shattering the moment. Mrs. Hattie Cole shuffled in, her sensible shoes squeaking faintly on the tile, her cardigan buttoned wrong and her lipstick a shade too bright.
"Lilypad," she sang, using the nickname I pretended to hate. "Have you got my Friday carnations? Old Mr. Cole liked them, and I see no reason to stop now that he’s dead."
"Of course, Hattie," I said, grateful for the interruption and oddly sorry for it too. "They’re in the back. Give me two minutes."
"Take three," she said, peering curiously at Andrew. "I see you’ve caught yourself a coffee man. About time."
My face went nuclear.
"We’re just—" I began.
"Neighbors," Andrew supplied, the word a little too brisk. "Andrew Kate. I run the café."
"Mmm." Hattie’s eyes were shrewd. "I know who you are."
Something passed over his face then, quick and almost imperceptible, like a shadow from a cloud. His shoulders straightened minutely. "I hope that’s a good thing."
"Depends," she said, and patted my arm. "Go on, child. Let me talk to your… neighbor."
I hesitated, but the line of orders on my clipboard and the expectant look on Hattie’s face left me no real choice.
"I’ll just be a minute," I told Andrew.
"Sure," he said. "No rush."
In the back room, surrounded by the clean chill of the flower fridge, I tried to breathe like a normal person and not someone whose entire morning had mislaid its balance.
An anonymous bouquet on my doorstep. An initial that could mean anyone. Andrew’s face when Nora said his name. Hattie’s "I know who you are," heavy with meanings I couldn’t yet unpack.
The carnations were where I’d left them, clustered in unapologetic reds and pinks. I wrapped them in brown paper and tied them off, my fingers moving automatically. My mind, unfortunately, did not.
What kind of person copied another’s bouquet so precisely? What kind of person watched that closely without being seen?
And why, of all the letters in the alphabet, did it have to be A?
I stepped back into the main room just as Hattie finished a sentence I only caught the tail end of.
"—don’t wait until the flowers wilt, boy."
Andrew’s ears were pink again. Hattie looked smug.
"Here you go," I said, handing her the carnations like nothing was amiss. "Fresh as ever."
"Just like me," she said, and winked. Then, softer, so only I could hear: "Don’t hide behind your counter, Lilypad. Life’s across the street."
My throat tightened around a dozen unspoken replies. Before I could find one, she was bustling out, the bell chiming in her wake.
The shop felt quiet without her, the usual morning buzz suddenly threaded with something more delicate.
"I, uh, should get back," Andrew said, gesturing vaguely toward his café. "The morning rush is probably wondering if I’ve eloped."
"With my florist," Nora muttered. "Scandalous."
"Ignore her," I said automatically, though I couldn’t quite bring myself to meet his eyes.
He took a step toward the door, then paused. "Lily?"
"Yeah?"
"If you, um." He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, searching for words. "If you ever want to… talk through who your secret admirer might be, I make a decent after-hours cocoa too."
It was clumsy and sweet and almost unbearably earnest.
"I’ll keep that in mind," I said, a smile tugging at my mouth before I could stop it.
His shoulders relaxed, just a little. "Okay. I’ll bring the forms by later. And… enjoy the flowers. Whoever they’re from."
He left with the bell chiming softly behind him, crossing the street in a few long strides. Sunlight caught on the glass of his shop door as he went inside, turning his reflection into a ghost for a moment before it disappeared.
Nora waited exactly three seconds.
"He’s totally into you."
"He brought coffee," I protested weakly. "He’s into cross-promotion."
"And he looked like someone had punched his puppy when he saw that bouquet," she said. "You, my dear, are in a rom-com."
I glanced at the anonymous flowers on my table, then out the window toward the café. Andrew moved behind the counter, efficient and careful, but every now and then his gaze flicked toward the street.
Rom-coms had scripts. Clear acts, tidy resolutions. Real life was messier. But as the scent of garden roses wrapped around me and the coffee warmed my palms, I couldn’t quite shake the sense that something had shifted.
The universe had left a bouquet on my doorstep and written one letter on the tag.
A.
Across the street, Andrew Kate lifted his head at the exact moment I looked over, as if he’d felt the thought.
For a heartbeat, our eyes met through the glass, the world narrowing to that thin, invisible distance.
I dropped my gaze first.
"Nora," I said quietly. "What if this isn’t just a prank?"
She smiled, softer than before. "Then, Lil, it’s the beginning."
The bell above the door chimed again, and I turned, pulse jumping, half-expecting another bouquet, another note, another initial.
But it was only a delivery driver with a stack of empty vases and a question about the afternoon schedule.
Still, as I went back to my workbench, my eyes kept drifting to the anonymous flowers and the small, plain strip of paper tied around them.
A beginning, Nora had said.
I traced the looping letter with one fingertip, the paper cool and firm beneath my skin.
"Okay," I whispered, mostly to myself, as the coffee machine across the street hissed and the town went about its ordinary day.
"Then show me who you are."
