Norah
“Can we talk?”
This can’t be fucking happening.
My pulse surges so fast I forget how to breathe. Every muscle locks.
That voice once ruined me.
I start walking faster, trying to outrun the ghost of my past, but then a hand closes around my arm, gentle yet firm enough to stop me. He turns me to face him, and there he is.
Dorian James.
He looks impossibly put together. Six-one, lean frame wrapped in a charcoal coat, dark brown hair swept just enough to look like he hasn’t tried too hard.
Those espresso eyes watch me, same as they always did. Intent, unreadable, too much at once.
“Don’t touch me,” I manage, pulling my arm free.
“You’re mad.”
“Of course I’m mad.” The words come sharper than I mean them to. “The last time I saw you, I was in your bed, and by morning, you were gone. No call. No note. Nothing.”
He tugs his hand through his hair, looking down, looking guilty, which only makes me angrier. “I can explain.”
“I don’t care for your explanation.” My voice wavers, but I steady it with effort. “I have work to do.”
“Please, sweetheart?—”
“Don’t call me that.” I take a step closer before I realize what I’m doing.
He smells the same. Warm cedar, bergamot, and leather. It hits like a memory I never wanted to revisit. I force myself to breathe through it, to not let my instincts surface.
“Go back to Portland, James.” My words scrape against the cold air as I turn away. “Whatever reason you had for leaving before—just stick to it.”
I walk toward the square without looking back. Every step feels like dragging a weight uphill. Snow flurries cling to my hair, melt on my scarf.
I want to cry, but anger burns too hot beneath my skin for tears.
The thought of going to the Fox and Fern café crosses my mind. Wren’s usually there, or at least she used to be before her mother moved back in.
I don’t know if she’s around this morning, and the last thing I want is to run into anyone else who’ll see how shaken I am.
My hands are trembling by the time I unlock the door to Knightly Blooms.
The bell jingles, sweet and familiar, as I push inside, and warmth wraps around me.
Buckets of fresh blooms line the front display: blush-pink garden roses, white ranunculus, autumn chrysanthemums in shades of amber and rust. My little oasis in the heart of Fox Hollow.
I flick on the fairy lights woven across the window and set my cocoa on the counter. For a few breaths, I just stand there, taking it in.
This shop is mine. All of it. My aunt left it to me years ago, and sometimes I still feel her here—the way she used to hum while trimming stems, the notes she scribbled in the old ledger I keep tucked under the register.
I shrug off my coat, down half of my now lukewarm cocoa, and start arranging a new bouquet for the display window. My hands find their rhythm, trimming stems, binding them with twine, nestling roses beside sprigs of cedar.
This is where my world makes sense. I lose myself in color and texture: the way peonies open like secrets, the silky brush of tulip petals against my fingers.
Outside, traffic hums faintly through the snow. Inside, the only sound is the heater clicking to life.
