I nod, watching him carefully.
He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “That was…weirdly specific, Hayden. How did you know that?”
“Pattern recognition,” I deflect, sipping coffee. “Luck, if you prefer.”
Levi’s eyes narrow, filing the moment away under “odd” before tilting his head toward the second cup. “Is that for me?”
I hesitate, just for a second, then pass it to him. “You said you didn’t sleep much.”
His expression shifts, touched, before he grins and reaches for it. His fingers brush against mine, a spike of much-needed warmth.
“Is this your version of foreplay?” he muses, groaning as the caffeine hits. “Showing up with coffee like some romantic antihero?”
I huff, shaking my head. “You’re a handful.”
He winks. “But that’s why you’re here.”
He’s not wrong.
Levi sips, watching me over the rim like he’s trying to see me.Reallysee me.
And, in what feels like a first, I don’t mind being seen.
8
Levi
February in aflower shop is carnage.
Not the fun chaos, like a surprise snow day or a bottomless mimosa brunch where someone, usually me, inevitably ends up dancing on a table. No, this is war. It’s waged with frantic last-minute orders, panicked boyfriends desperate to prove they’ve got game, and the bone-deep exhaustion of manufacturing miracles with magnolias.
By day seven, I’m powered by espresso, spite, and a questionable multivitamin. By day ten, I’m running on muscle memory and delusion.
“What do you mean the delivery’s delayed?” I question into the landline wedged between my shoulder and ear while I mummify a bouquet in tissue. My tone teeters between polite and homicidal. “No, we cannot wait two weeks for fertilizer, Marty. Spring orders start next month. You know this!”
A pause. Deep nose-breath. “Mm-hm, sure. Totally fine. We’ll…figure something out.”
I hang up and stare at the receiver for a long second, resisting the urge to throw it into the nearest vase.
“Everything okay?” Naomi asks, appearing with an armful of order sheets.
“Fine,” I lie, forcing a tight smile. “Just a minor supplier hiccup. Add it to the ever-growing list of things conspiring against me.”
Naomi, of course, is thriving. In the last two weeks, she’s overhauled our inventory, streamlined scheduling, color-coded spreadsheets, and somehow convinced our notoriously slow mulch supplier to start delivering ahead of schedule. I have never felt so simultaneously terrified of and grateful for someone in my life.
“Well, I ran last year’s Valentine’s numbers,” she says from behind the counter. “If we double peonies and bump the price by a dollar, we’ll significantly boost profit margins.”
I groan, wiping dirt off my hands. “You’re making me look bad.”
“You hired me. Which makes you look brilliant.”
“Or you’re plotting a takeover as we speak.”
Naomi rolls her eyes. “Semantics.”
She disappears into the back, already dictating notes into her phone. Somehow, I hired an intern and ended up with a flower-shop fairy godmother.
When she’s not saving me from my own disorganization, Naomi’s been quietly taking over the community garden logistics like she was born for it. She’s already mapped volunteer shifts, color-coded the soil test dates, and gently bullied the city planner into approving a composting grant. I keep waiting for her to reveal she’s a time traveler sent to fix my life, but honestly, it feels like I’ve been handed a backbone I didn’t realize I was trying to grow alone.
