“Maybe not today,” Wren says. “Illness makes people protective of their privacy. Of their pride. Doesn’t mean you did wrong.”
I stare into my mug. The tea’s steaming, the scent of honey rising up. “She looked so angry. Like I exposed something she wanted hidden.”
“Maybe you reminded her of a time when things were simpler. Before everything changed.” Wren sits across from me, chin propped on her hand. “You’ve got that effect on people.”
I huff out a forced laugh. “I think I’ve got the opposite effect.”
“Maybe.” She smiles softly. “But you showed up with flowers and bread in a snowstorm. That counts for something.”
I look out the window. The snow outside falls heavier now, blanketing Main Street in quiet white. The lights from the shop windows glow against it, soft and warm.
I think about Dorian’s face when he saw me, the flicker of surprise, the way his voice softened for half a breath before his mother’s tone cut through.
“It’s my fault,” I say quietly. “For barging in. For assuming.”
“Or maybe it’s his fault,” Wren counters gently. “For not setting the boundary you didn’t know existed.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe he should’ve warned me. Or maybe I wanted an excuse to see him.
By the time I finish my tea, the warmth has seeped back into my hands. Wren wraps the remaining banana bread and slides it across the table. “Take this to the shop. You’ll need something to keep you company.”
“What about you? How’s the nausea, babe?”
“Simon has me on some meds that are really helping. With Mom meeting with her lawyer this week, it’ll be better for me to be in charge of my faculties.”
She’s referring to the fact that her mother is in the process of filing for divorce from her abusive husband. Wren and her dad have never gotten along.
I smile faintly. “Please call me if you need anything. I’ll be right over.”
“I’m okay, Norah. Go work. Make some money. Make sure you eat. I know it’s going to be hard to accept, but you did your part. I don’t know anyone who would have gone to check on the ex’s parent.”
“Thanks.”
She squeezes my hand. “You did fine. The world doesn’t break just because one person takes something the wrong way.”
I nod, though I don’t quite believe it. When I step back into the cold, the air bites at my cheeks, but it feels cleaner somehow. The bouquet’s gone, the scent of rosemary and cedar still clinging to my gloves.
By the time I reach my shop, the snow has muffled everything, turning the whole street into a watercolor of white and gray.
Inside, I’ve got poinsettias stacked near the window, their red petals glowing against the frost. Roses crowd the counter in bundles of cream and blush, each one waiting to be trimmed and wrapped before the afternoon orders go out.
It’s almost peaceful. Almost.
I wipe my hands on a towel and move toward the back table, where a few stems of holly spill from a bucket. My fingers ache a little, but the ache is the good kind.
It reminds me I’ve built something with my own hands. My shop smells like everything I love. It hums with the life I’ve managed to keep alive.
I’m halfway through trimming eucalyptus when the door opens again. A gust of cold air rushes in, followed by a voice I recognize before I even look up.
“Hey, Norah.”
Jude Beckett Carter stands in the doorway, brushing snow off his jacket. The sight of him always makes the room shift a little.
He fills a space like he was built for it, broad-shouldered and easy, his hair a little damp from the snow. There’s a shy sort of energy to him, like he’s perpetually aware he’s taking up too much space and is trying to soften it for everyone else.
I smile, setting down the shears. “Jude. What brings you by? Don’t tell me you’re here for a bouquet.”
He laughs, the sound low and warm. “Not this time. Though I could use your help.”
