“Are you at the shop?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“No, at Simon’s,” she says. I can hear voices in the background. Levi’s low laugh and the sound of dishes clinking. “We were just thinking of grabbing breakfast before my checkup. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I try to sound casual. “Just checking in.”
“Norah.” Her tone softens. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
There’s no point in pretending. “Dorian’s back in town.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out thinner than I want. “Oh, shit indeed.”
Wren blows out a breath. “I can’t believe he’d just show up like that. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, eyes on the half-finished bouquet in front of me. “You’ve got enough going on. Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re my best friend, I always worry about you,” she says. “My checkup will be done by one. Meet me at the B&B for lunch?”
“Okay.”
“Promise me you’ll be okay till then?”
“I’ll be okay,” I repeat, though it doesn’t sound convincing even to me.
When we hang up, the shop feels too still. The heater hums, petals brush softly as I tie another ribbon, and I let myself sink back into the rhythm of work. It’s safer here, behind the counter, surrounded by things that bloom even in winter.
Outside, the snow keeps falling, heavier now, covering footprints and mistakes alike. Inside, I breathe in the scent of roses and cedar, and tell myself that’s enough.
The sign for Blade & Butter gleams above the door, gold lettering against weathered wood. The place hums with warmth, the air thick with roasted coffee, maple syrup, and something sweet from the bakery case.
Every table glows beneath low-hung pendant lights. Locals linger over brunch plates, laughter spilling between sips of cider and the crackle of the fire.
This town loves B&B. It’s where people come to celebrate, to gossip, to commiserate over hot meals and sugar-dusted pastries.
I’m not sure why I agreed to meet Wren here. Maybe I needed noise to drown out the thoughts chasing.
Wren spots me from our table near the window, waving with her free hand. The other rests protectively over her stomach.
Her copper-red hair gleams under the lights, and the dress she’s wearing barely hides how far along she is now. Pregnancy looks beautiful on her, even when she swears she feels awful.
“Hey,” I greet, slipping into the seat across from her.
“You look like hell,” she says, grinning.
“Thanks.”
She reaches for her cocoa. “Doctor says I’m twenty-four weeks. Which apparently means I’ll stay nauseous and exhausted until this kid decides to give me a break.”
“Still sleepy?”
“Always.” She laughs, but there’s a yawn tucked behind it. “At least my mom’s back from her cruise to help out. I swear, if I drop one more glass or forget my phone again, Simon’s going to start bubble-wrapping the furniture.”
Her mates fuss over her constantly. It’s sweet, really. Fox Hollow has that effect on packs. They’re close, protective, never too far from each other’s orbit.
We order from Fallon, the tattooed butcher who doubles as the most unexpectedly charming server in town. He winks at Wren, jots down her craving for pancakes, and then glances at me.
“Avocado toast and chai, right?”
