“Yeah. Someone’s coming by about booth construction. Apparently, he’s been doing it for twenty years.” I sniffed a rose,half-distracted. “Just another thing I don’t know about running the festival.”
“You’ll get the hang of it. You love this stuff.” He tapped his clipboard, already wheeling out. “See you next week!”
“Say hi to Janice!” I called.
Alone again, my shoulders sagged. Being in charge of community events was a dream come true—but how could I enjoy it when the shop was crumbling around me?
Shaking my thoughts away, I plucked a few stems from the buckets and set them aside.
My grandmother always loved creating one wild, vibrant arrangement to set by the register. Customers would stare—sometimes in confusion rather than love—but they never failed to spark a conversation. It was the first responsibility I was trusted with when I got older.
I still remember how she loved that I always reached for the most unique flowers or the least appreciated colors.
“We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I,” she’d say, blue eyes sparkling beneath thick-framed, clementine glasses.
I wanted to believe it was true. There would be nothing better than being like Marigold, the force-of-nature who swept through life and never met a problem she couldn’t knock down. As the years stretched on, though, our differences seemed more and more undeniable.
My grandmother would never be stuck just keeping her head above water. She had an uncanny knack for unsticking herself.
Chugging the half-melted remains of my mocha, I gathered my wits—however many remained—and began to fill the cooler with fresh flowers. Dwelling on the negatives had no use, like the suspicious water stains on my walls that seemed to grow every morning or my overdue credit card bill. I had work to do. Nothing would change unless I made it.
I was humming the melody to my favorite song and building a mini arrangement when a knock sounded on the open doorway. In an instant, an automatic smile stretched across my lips, and I clapped my hands together.
“Welcome to Marigold's!" I cheered before I looked up and studied my customer.
The man stood in the entrance as if there was a rod fused to his spine. He stared at me, dark hair neatly cropped and seemingly glued in place, starched denim shirt practically filling up the open door frame. Whoever he was, he wasn’t from the Cove.
And something told me he wasn’t here to buy flowers.
“Are you Marigold?” he questioned, observing me with what could only be open disinterest.
“No, that was my grandmother,” I replied, slowly edging around the counter. “Can I help you with anything?”
“I’m Rhett Briggs.” He took a single step inside, floor shifting beneath his thick work boots. His face turned wary as he studied the board in question. “The handyman,” he explained to his feet.
“Oh! Nice to meet you!” My hand shot out as I strode toward him. The sudden scrutiny over the bendy parts of my shop that weren’t necessarily supposed tobendmade my stomach twist. “My name’s Georgette. Friends call me Georgie, though.”
Rhett’s hand swallowed mine in a brief, firm handshake.
“I thought you would be—” I paused, trying not to stare too long. “Older?” I finished.
If he didn’t appear hellbent on nitpicking every nook and cranny of the store, I might have begrudgingly admitted that the breadth of his shoulders and penetrating darkness of his eyes made him altogether infuriatingly handsome.
“It’s my uncle’s business,” Rhett responded matter-of-factly, making it clear he’d provide no further explanation. “Where would you like to meet about the end of summer event?”
“Here’s fine.” I motioned around us. “There’s no one to watch the shop for me.”
My face heated in a flush of embarrassment as he swept his discerning gaze across the store as if to say, “This place is a ghost town.” Swallowing the lump in my throat, I rushed to the tiny backroom, dumped the water from the empty buckets into the sink, and carried them back out. He continued to watch me, silent, as I turned them over to make stools.
“We can sit here.”
I noted absently that I was much too out of breath for the situation, and I probably looked like a frizzy-haired, red-faced lunatic.
Rhett blinked. “I prefer to stand.”
My blush deepened. “That’s perfectly alright! Do you want to take notes?”
In response, he pulled out his phone and a stylus from his back pocket.
