Amber
The bellabove the door jingles softly, a gentle chime that breaks the silence of the shop. We’ve been here for nearly two hours, tucked away in the warm, floral-scented haven of Knightly Blooms.
Outside, the world is still shaking off the remnants of the snow, the sky a pale, watery gray that promises more precipitation later. But in here, it smells like wet earth, cedar, and the sweet perfume of the eucalyptus stems I just finished trimming.
Norah is settled on the stool behind the counter, her hands wrapped around a ceramic mug. It’s her second cup of that special blend Miss Thea made for her—red raspberry leaf and moonflower essence.
The steam rises in lazy curls, framing her face. She looks better than she did earlier, a bit of the color returned to her cheeks, though she still moves with that careful, deliberate slowness of someone carrying precious cargo.
I lean against the workbench, cradling my own mug of hot cocoa. It’s rich and dark, dotted with tiny marshmallows that are slowly melting into the chocolate. The warmth seeps into myfingertips, fighting off the chill that seems to live in my bones these days.
“Miss Thea really knows what she’s doing,” Norah murmurs, taking a sip. She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment. “My stomach actually feels settled. It’s the first time in a week I haven’t felt like I’m going to be sick every time I stand up too fast. And my heats are definitely under control now.”
“That’s good,” I reply, staring down at the swirl of whipped cream in my cup. “You need the calories. The baby needs the calories.”
“Speaking of calories,” Norah says, her tone turning wistful, “I would kill for one of those cinnamon sugar cookies from Lorelai’s Bakery. You know the ones? With the thick glaze that cracks when you bite into them?”
I groan in agreement. “Cora must have a new batch out by now. The smell usually drifts all the way down the street by noon.”
“That guy she hired for deliveries was supposed to bring some yesterday, but with the snow…” Norah trails off, looking out the window at the slushy street. “Everything is delayed. It’s like the whole town is moving in slow motion.”
“It’s cozy, though,” I say, trying to inject some brightness into my voice. “People are slowing down. Staying inside. It’s nice to see the town so quiet.”
“It is,” she agrees. “But I’m hungry. And these pick-ups have been trickling in so slowly. I thought we’d have the wedding consults back-to-back today.”
“They’re probably rescheduling. People don’t want to drive in this mess.” I set my mug down and pick up a pair of shears, needing to keep my hands busy. I start stripping the lower leaves from a bunch of rosemary. “It gives us time to organize the back room. I found three more boxes of that vintage lace you like.”
Norah brightens. “Really? Oh, that’s perfect. I can use that for the spring arrangements. See? This is why I needed to come in. I’d go crazy sitting on that couch staring at Rufus all day.”
We fall into a comfortable rhythm, talking about the different locales in Fox Hollow. We joke about how Mabel at the general store is probably spying on everyone from her window, and how James Beck is likely standing stoically by the lighthouse, ignoring the cold. It’s a nice, normal morning.
Then, my phone buzzes on the counter.
The sound is jarring, a harsh vibration against the wood. I glance down, expecting a text from Jude or maybe a reminder about Maisie’s lunch money.
Instead, the screen lights up with an unknown number. No area code I recognize, just a long string of digits that doesn’t look local.
My heart skips a beat, a flutter of unease that I try to dismiss. Telemarketers happen, even here.
I reach out to silence it, but my hand hovers. Something instinctual tells me to answer. Maybe it’s the hospital. Maybe it’s about Maisie.
I swipe the screen, lifting the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
Silence on the other end. Just the faint static of a long-distance connection.
“Hello?” I repeat, my voice tightening.
Then, a sound. A low, familiar exhale. A breath that I used to hear right next to my ear, usually right before a hand raised in anger.
“Amber.” The name is a drawl, slow and smug.
My blood runs cold, freezing instantly in my veins. The room seems to tilt, the walls of the flower shop closing in.
Luke.
I block every number he gets. I change my social media. I move states. And yet here he is, a ghost from the worst part of my life, intruding on my life.
“What do you want?” I whisper, my grip on the phone tightening until my knuckles turn white. My stomach drops, a sickening lurch that sends bile rising in my throat.
