“Okay…”
“And he hates that we’re there.”
She hums and begins gently arranging a spray of sweet peas. “Ah. One ofthosetypes.”
“Totally type-A. Cold. Condescending. Uses phrases like ‘liability risk’ and ‘revisit the terms of use.’”
“He sounds delightful.”
“He monologued to a dog about how chaotic I am.”
“Was he wrong?”
I squint at her. “Whose side are you on?”
“The dog’s,” she says. “Always.”
I shake my head and finish my drink. “He’s impossible. Every time I make progress, he throws up another boundary. And the worst part is… I think he’s doing it to protect himself. Like, genuinely.”
Gloria’s hands still over the arrangement.
“Ah,” she says quietly. “So he’s not just a cold bastard. He’s a wounded cold bastard.”
I groan. “Don’t make this romantic. It’s not romantic.”
“Of course not,” she replies, her tone far too agreeable. “Just a wedding planner living in a guest house across the lawn from a handsome grump with a power complex and haunted eyes. Nothing to see here.”
I throw a sprig of rosemary at her.
She catches it midair and tucks it into the arrangement. “Well, if things escalate, I expect to be the first to know.”
“They won’t.”
“They might.”
“They won’t.”
She winks. “I’ll just keep some extra peonies on hand. In case of emergency.”
I roll my eyes and eat my quinoa.
After lunch, Gloria gestures toward a long, butcher paper–covered table behind her. “You brought the mood board, didn’t you?”
I dig into my bag and pull out a crisp portfolio, sliding it across the table like it’s a sacred artifact. “Printedandlaminated. You’re welcome.”
We move to the stools at the larger table, and she fans through the pages, nodding slowly, her many bracelets jangling with each turn. “Okay. This I like. Very soft. Very romantic. Like a Jane Austen heroine on her third mimosa.”
“Ivy’s big on whimsy. She described it as ‘cottagecore meets cool-girl editorial,’ which I think roughly translates to wildflowers, but make them expensive.”
Gloria snorts. “Translation: she wants it to look effortless but notactuallybe effortless.”
“Exactly.”
“Don’t we all,” she says wistfully. “Basically, that’s the story of my life.”
We move to the greenhouse side by side, pulling bundles of Gerbera daisies, ranunculus, and feverfew from buckets. Gloria works intuitively, her fingers flying. I work with a ruler, a clipboard, and a very specific plan.
And somehow, it always balances out.
