She explains as we start hauling: “I let the bakery know, and Ryker at the hardware store, and a few of the other shops. I’m hoping people will come. Even if it’s small, it’s better than nothing.”
“It won’t be small,” Beau says, balancing two boxes easily.
She ducks her head, smiling despite herself.
It takes three trips to pack everything into a truck. By the time we unload at Norah’s floral shop, the front counter is buried under baked goods, the air thick with the mingling scent of roses and sugar.
Norah herself flits around arranging vases, her expression warm but watchful—like she’s pleased to see us, but taking mental notes all the same.
The shop is charming in a way that feels almost too perfect for our little town—expansive windows letting in the morning light, shelves stacked with terracotta pots, vines curling down from high planters.
The flowers look brighter against the pastel-painted walls, and as Wren sets out her pastries, the place comes alive.
We get to work. Levi rolls up his sleeves, ties on one of Norah’s spare aprons, and stations himself at the counter.
“I’m free all morning,” he says to Wren. “Put me wherever you need.”
She laughs. “Alright, then. You’re on register duty.”
Beau grabs the chalkboard signs, scribbling menu prices with surprising neatness before setting them outside. “I’ll charm the customers,” he declares.
“You’ll scare the customers,” Levi mutters, earning himself a glare.
I station myself near the back where Norah’s coffee maker is. It’s not as fancy as the one Wren used at the café, but with a bit of adjusting, I manage a decent brew.
Soon, the air is filled with the hiss of steaming milk and the earthy scent of espresso. And by the time the first customers trickle in, everything’s in motion.
Levi mans the till with surprising efficiency, Beau jokes with townsfolk as he hands out samples, and Wren floats between stations—smiling, explaining, refilling trays.
I catch myself watching her more than once, the way she lights up when someone compliments her, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she thinks no one’s looking.
At one point, I overhear Beau and Levi speaking in low voices near the back shelves.
“She’s gonna need more money to fix that café,” Beau mutters.
“Yeah,” Levi agrees. “But you know her. She’d refuse if we offered.”
“Stubborn little thing.”
“Independent,” Levi corrects.
I don’t join in, but I agree. She wouldn’t accept help, not if she thought it came with strings attached. She’d rather break herself trying first.
By ten, the crowd’s steady, people cycling in and out with boxes and cups of coffee. My pager buzzes, reminding me of the hospital. I pull off my apron, wipe my hands, and head for her.
She intercepts me before I can speak, pressing a container into my hands. “For you. Pastries. To take with you.”
“Wren—”
“No arguments.” She fixes me with that determined look I’m beginning to know too well.
I sigh and try to hand her the money instead. “At least let me?—”
“Nope.” She shakes her head, curls bouncing.
Fine. I wait until she turns her back, then slip a few bills into the tip jar.
When she faces me again, I lean down, pressing a kiss to her forehead before I can stop myself. The gesture is instinctive, tender. Too tender.
