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“When? I can have her call you when I?—”

“No.” I shake my head. “Let’s not do that. As soon as I have enough time, I’ll get to it. My word is bond.”

She eyes me for a moment before turning to the flower aisles behind her. “I need to get flowers for your father,” she says.

“Oh? What’s the occasion?” It’s not their wedding anniversary yet, and it’s not one of their birthdays, either.

“Do I need an occasion to appreciate the best husband in the world?” She smiles. “Maybe when you have enough time, you should find a suitable man for yourself. What do you think?”

“Mom!”

“What?” She laughs. “I mean, what would people say about an acclaimed matchmaker who is hopelessly single?”

“I’m not hopelessly single,” I argue.

“Whatever. I just know it’s bad for business.” She winks and drifts away, murmuring something about choosing a bouquet that signifies unending love.

I roll my eyes at her disappearing form, but a part of me can’t help but feel the sting of her comment. Hopelessly single? Well, maybe a little bit. Who needs to be in a relationship when the last thing I need is to juggle my own love life while solving someone else’s problems?

I try to push the thought away, but everything she said keeps replaying. My thoughts slip to something else—the past, to be exact. To Ryan.

I can still picture us in high school, inseparable. Everyone knew Ryan and me. We werethecouple, the one everyone pointed to as proof that love could last forever. He promised me that, too. He swore up and down that we would never be apart, no matter what. He was my world, my first love, and I truly believed we were destined to grow old together.

But after high school, things began to change, and I noticed it before he even did. We both went off to different colleges, but I tried to keep the fire of our relationship burning. I texted him every night, called him after class, and sent him silly little notes with love quotes. At first, he was responsive—sweet, loving, like the boy I had known. But then the calls started going unanswered. The texts were left on read. And with every unanswered message, my heart would crack a little more.

I convinced myself it was nothing at first. He was busy, I’d tell myself. He had his own life to live, just like I did. But after a while, the excuses didn’t work. The long silences between us grew longer, and the distance between us wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, too. By the time I graduated, I barely knewhim anymore. He’d moved on without me, and I felt like I was grasping at a love that had already slipped through my fingers.

The worst part? It wasn’t the heartbreak when he told me he wasn’t coming back to Bardstown. It wasn’t the way he said it so casually, like it was an afterthought. It was the realization that I wasn’t enough. The girl who had promised him forever—who had stayed true to him through every trial, every mile—wasn’t worth the effort to keep. He told me he’d built a life in the city and that it was time for me to “move on.” And just like that, the boy who swore to love me forever was gone.

I returned to Bardstown that day, heartbroken and bitter, vowing to never let myself love like that again. It wasn’t a vow made out of anger but out of self-preservation. I couldn’t open my heart that wide again, only for it to be shattered. So, I threw myself into my work, into my flower shop. I learned how to keep myself busy, how to pretend that love wasn’t something I wanted anymore. The customers that came and went out of my shop, and the occasional date I went on after were all distractions. None of them could ever measure up, and I didn’t want them to.

Seven years have passed since that day. Seven long years where I’ve tried and failed to open up again. I’ve dated a few people, yes. But each time, I could feel the walls go up. I could see their disappointment as I pulled back, unable to give them what they wanted, what they deserved. And the truth is, after Ryan, I don’t think I can ever give anyone that much of myself again. It’s like a part of me was lost in that experience—the part of me that’s still holding onto the idea of love that doesn’t let you down.

But one thing I’ve learned as a matchmaker is that you don’t guess love. The most beautiful thing about love is that you go in blindly, knowing the other person can hurt, break, or shatter you, yet you choose to love them anyway. In a way, I think thepeople who do that are brave. It’s like putting your life into someone else’s hands and just living every day, hoping that they don’t wake up one sunny morning and tell you to move on.

I’m not willing to take that risk, no, thank you very much. And even if I am, there’s no guy out there for me.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. The usual routine of the shop fills the hours as customers come in asking where I’ve been these past few days.

“I was just handling some… business,” I tell them with a smile, avoiding the specifics. “But I’m back now.”

I know that news of Jack’s presence in Bardstown will soon spread, but I’ll do my best to stall until then and try to contain it. The last thing I want is for paparazzi to storm our little town in search of their favorite rage bait.

The customers nod, smile, and go on with their shopping, picking up whatever flowers they need. I take care of their orders, my mind drifting. I try to act like everything’s fine, like the weird morning I had isn’t gnawing at me. But the thought of Jack keeps slipping into my head. It’s hard not to think about him, especially since everything I do now revolves around him.

Evening comes, and I head home. I change into something comfortable and sit down at my desk, turning on my laptop. The list. It’s time to start the list of women I think would be suitable for Jack.

It feels… wrong somehow. It feels like I’m playing matchmaker for someone who doesn’t even want to be matched. But I can’t back out now. I promised. And no matter how much my brain tries to rationalize it, I can’t deny the part of me that wants thisto work. That part of me that’s persistent, like my mother, the part that can’t give up even when things feel impossible.

I open a new document and start typing. Names come to mind—women from around town, women who could fit Jack’s “ordinary” idea. Maybe they’re not celebrities or models, but they’re smart, kind, and good-hearted. And that’s what Jack needs, right? Someone who doesn’t care about the spotlight.

I keep typing, adding names, checking them off, and jotting down notes about what would make them a good match for Jack. I want to get this done, but something keeps pulling at me—the way he looked at me earlier when he said “ordinary.” There was something soft in his gaze, something unexpected.

But no, I’m overthinking it. I’m just creating stories in my head. Jack Calloway isn’t looking for anything real. He’s just looking for someone to meet briefly. He doesn’t want someone like me.

I sigh, shaking the thought away, and continue typing, my fingers moving faster than my mind. After a while, I leave the file open and climb into bed, exhausted. I’ll go over the list again tomorrow, and when the time is right, I’ll present it to him. The sooner we can get this done and get him out of my town, the better it’ll be for all of us.

JACK