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."
