Page 25 of Screwed by the Minotaur in Hallow’s Cove (Hallow’s Cove #6)

Chapter eighteen

Lea

The morning after the grand opening, I woke up in a haze of sex and serotonin and the faint, cloying scent of peonies.

Rick was already gone—probably wrestling with a shipment of, I don’t know, self-driving wheelbarrows or whatever new hotness the hardware store was peddling—but he’d left a tray on the nightstand with coffee, a cinnamon scone, and a handwritten note: Flowers didn’t need watering.

Didn’t want to wake you. Miss you anyway.

– Rick . He’d dotted the “i” in his name with a little heart. The minotaur was a menace.

I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, letting the new shape of my life settle into place.

The hum of the shop below, the soft clatter of someone (Dixie, a brownie and my first hired help, probably) restocking the cooler, the distant whine of a leaf blower outside—the ordinary was extraordinary now.

All the years I’d spent trying to keep the world at bay, all the ways I’d curled up inside myself to avoid more loss—suddenly they seemed small, almost laughable, compared to this: a town that had taken me in, a man who insisted on loving me even when I was a handful, a store that wasn’t haunted by ghosts, but buoyed by them.

I got up, slipped on Rick’s flannel from the chair, pulled on some leggings, and shuffled down the stairs barefoot.

The air in Coming Up Daisies was damp with the last dregs of morning fog, all the colors of the petals and leaves so saturated they looked fake.

Dixie was indeed at the cooler, hair tucked under a bandana, head bent over a bouquet of orange lilies and purple something-or-others.

She looked up, saw me, and grinned like the sun. “Hey, boss. You missed the post-opening donut orgy. I think Randy left you a half-eaten bear claw.”

“Perfect fuel for the day,” I said, and made a beeline for the counter. The bear claw was, in fact, more like a bear pinky, but I gnawed on it anyway, licking powdered sugar off my fingers like it was the price of admission for a day in paradise.

Dixie surveyed me over the top of her bouquet. “So. Wild night?”

I tried to look scandalized, but failed. “I plead the Fifth.”

She snorted, setting the bouquet into a vase with a thunk. “You know, if you’re going to have a whirlwind romance with the town’s most eligible bachelor, you need to get used to the gossip mill. Three people already stopped by to check if you and Rick eloped after closing last night.”

I paused mid-sugar lick. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

She made a face. “Wish I was. This is a small town, boss. The only thing people love more than fresh flowers is a good love story and you’re giving ’em both.

” Dixie turned back to her work, humming something that sounded suspiciously like “Here Comes the Bride.” I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t hate it—not really.

The shop was full of customers by midmorning, the bell over the door ringing every three minutes, Dixie’s voice chirping greetings and snappy banter while I floated from table to table, answering questions and making tiny last-second edits to every bouquet about to walk out the door.

I caught a glimpse in the front window and almost didn’t recognize myself: curls natural and haloed by sun, cheeks pink, mouth stuck in a permanent lopsided smile.

A little after noon, Britt showed up—a complete surprise.

She breezed in looking like she’d run a marathon through an art supply store—paint on her elbows, new nose ring, and a T-shirt that said “Feral and Thriving” in neon pink letters.

She dropped a takeout bag on the counter and surveyed the shop like a general reviewing her troops, then gave me a hug tight enough to nearly pop my ribs.

“I brought lunch,” she announced, opening the bag with a flourish.

I grinned and dug into the bag. “Please tell me this is the greasy gyro I dream about.”

“Unless you object to extra tzatziki. I also swiped baklava.” She leaned in, voice sly. “So how’s the new life treating you? You ready to admit I was right about you being a country girl at heart?”

I considered this, chewing. “I’m not sure I’m ready to go full Carhartt, but I do like it when people wave to me on the street.”

Britt waggled her brows. “That’s how it starts. Next thing, you’ll be in overalls with a bandana, shooting whiskey with the old-timers at the local bar. I give it six months.”

I snorted. “Not happening. I’ll stick to snake bites and sarcasm, thanks.”

Britt stayed until I closed up. It only took her ten minutes to step in and work side by side with Dixie. She wasn’t the type to sit idly and watch someone work. She washed her hands and pulled me into a hug after the last customer left.

“You did good, Lea. Your mom would be proud.” She didn’t say it as a throwaway, either. She meant it, and the words landed in my chest and cracked something open that had been hardening over since the funeral. I blinked fast, then nodded and squeezed her hand.

“You sticking around?” I asked, not daring to hope.

She wrinkled her nose. “I gotta get back tonight—turns out running a flower shop in the big city is a full-time gig.” She shouldered her tote. “Don’t let Hallow’s Cove break your heart, okay?”

“It’s more likely to drown me in cinnamon rolls and small-town festivals,” I said.

She laughed, and for a moment it was like we were back in college, right before the world got heavy. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Call me if you need anything. Seriously, Lea. It’s not weakness to need help, okay?”

She left me with a wave and a promise to visit soon, the bell over the door chiming a warm farewell. I watched her cross the street and felt a bittersweet pang in my chest.

I was cleaning up the last of the day’s detritus—a pile of rubber bands, some wilted stems, a few stubborn receipts stuck to the counter—when Rick came in. He was vibrating with excitement.

“There she is,” he said, sweeping me up in a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of me. “You survived your first twenty-four hours as a shop owner.” He set me down, grinning so wide it looked like it hurt. “And you didn’t even have to run off with a biker gang or join a snake cult to do it.”

I crossed my arms. “It’s early yet. Could still happen.”

“Not if I get to you first,” he said, and dove for a kiss that was all teeth and sunshine and barely contained pride. He plopped the cardboard box on the counter between us. “Open it.”

I eyed the label: “From the collection of Barnaby and Maisie Hallow.” I could tell it was Maisie’s handwriting, equal parts elegant and threatening. I opened the box, and inside was…a single, battered Polaroid, a first edition of a book on heirloom gardening, and a note scrawled on thick paper.

Lea: For the record, this is us rooting for you. Keep growing (and don’t kill the peonies). –M it was a photo from last night, me and Rick behind the counter, arms thrown around each other, confetti from one of Roan’s poppers still stuck in my hair.

I was laughing with my whole face, and he was looking at me with a kind of reckless joy I’d never seen caught on film. My throat went thick.

Rick read over my shoulder, getting uncharacteristically quiet. “Y’know, I think they’re right,” he said, looping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. “You’re kinda stuck with us now. Whole town’s got their eye on you.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” I leaned into him, letting my head tip back. “Because the pressure’s on. I already started planning my dramatic escape.”

He kissed the top of my head. “There’s nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t follow, Azalea Thompson.”

I almost made a joke—almost, but didn’t.

Instead, I reached behind me, laced my fingers with his, and just stood there for a minute, letting the moment grow roots.

It didn’t matter that the future was a mystery or that the only guarantee in life was more change; if I could stand here, in this tiny shop with my arms full of flowers and a man who smelled like sawdust and sunlight, I’d figure it out. I always had.

Rick

“How about you come up to my place and we order some food?” I said, attempting to sound casual but probably sounding more like a nervous game show host.

Lea squinted at me like she was trying to read the fine print on a suspicious contract. “You’re plotting something.”

“Am I?” I tried to pull off the innocent look, but it came out more like I was choking on a peanut.

I’d been planning this since we came back from the city, but now, standing with her in the empty shop, I could feel my nerves fizzing under my skin.

I wanted her to move in. Not just sleep over, not just leave a toothbrush and an old band tee in my dresser, but to actually share a life, a roof, a calendar stuffed with grocery lists and overdue library books.

I wanted her to know she was as permanent as the nails in my floorboards, as the foundation that kept the rain and wind from tearing my world apart.

But how do you sell the woman you love on the idea of waking up to your bad breath and chronic snoring every single day?

I led her out her shop door, hand in hand, the late afternoon sun painting us orange and gold.

She kept up a running commentary about the day’s sales, the weirdest customer requests (“Did you know someone tried to buy a bouquet for their lizard?” “For the lizard ? Or for the lizard’s birthday party?

” “Unclear, but there was a cake involved, and the lizard wore a hat”).

I only half-listened, because I was trying to build up the courage to say what I’d rehearsed a dozen times.

We walked through my shop and climbed the steps to my place. I unlocked the door and let her in first, resisting the urge to yell “SURPRISE!” even though there was nothing to surprise her with yet.

She flopped onto my sofa, stretching, then propped her feet up on the coffee table. “What’s the game plan, captain?”

I busied myself with the takeout menus stacked on the kitchen counter. I had no idea what I was doing. “Uh, pizza? Thai? Tacos?”

“You’re the worst at decisions,” she said, affection in her voice. “Let me take a look.” She rifled through the pile, found a battered sushi menu, and tossed it at me. “Order your favorite. I’ll eat whatever. You know that.”

I watched her from the kitchen, the way her whole body loosened at the end of a long day—shoulders unknotting, toes fanning out, face losing the last of its retail-welcome mask.

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I wanted it every day.

Or, at least, as many days as she’d let me have.

I put in the order—two sushi rolls, miso soup, and a surprise dessert because I liked the way her eyes lit up at the unexpected. I paced the kitchen as it processed, running through the speech in my head, then immediately discarding it because it sounded like something out of a bad rom-com.

She called out from the living room. “Hey, Rick? Why is there a new pillow on the couch that says ‘Welcome Home’?”

I froze, chopsticks in one hand, phone in the other. “Uh. That’s, uh. New marketing initiative. Cozy Up With Rick’s Hardware.”

She leaned around the doorframe, eyebrow cocked. “It has daisies on it.”

Heat crept up my neck. “Yeah, you know, brand synergy.”

She padded over in bare feet, pillow under one arm, and plopped down at the table where I’d already put out mismatched plates and a six-pack of local cider.

“You’re hiding something.” She poked my chest, hard. “Spill.”

I took a deep, bracing breath. “What if I said I wanted you to move in with me?” I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could sand off the rough edges.

She blinked, mouth forming a perfect O, then squinted at me like I’d just suggested we adopt a baby capybara and raise it on bug spray and old pizza crusts.

“Move in?” she repeated. “Like… move in together, together ?”

“Yeah,” I said, and a whole platoon of nerves ignited. “Like, officially. Not just your underwear in my drawer, but your name on the deed, your shampoo in the shower, your takeout preferences permanently logged in my phone.”

She blinked, then started to laugh, a hiccupy, incredulous cackle that doubled her over the table. “Wow. Is this your premeditated murder-suicide plan, or are you just really into communal bills?”

I faked offense, but only just. She held up a hand to pause me, catching her breath.

“Okay, okay, I need a minute to process this.” She wandered to the window, looking out over the roofline of Main Street like she was hoping for a sign—maybe a rainbow, maybe a flaming comet.

“If I move in,” she said, not turning around, “do I get half the closet, or is this one of those ‘all your stuff goes in the garage’ situations?”

“Full half,” I said. “Even the shelves. I’ll clear out the power tools.”

She turned then, eyes bright and wide, mouth quirked in that sly way that always made my knees go a little weak. “But what if,” she said, stepping close enough to bump my hip with hers, “instead of me moving in, we knock down the wall between our places and just… make one giant space?”

I blinked. “You want to demo the wall?”

She grinned, delight radiating off her like summer heat. “Think about it. Why not? We could make a monster-sized kitchen, or a studio, or—hell, even a greenhouse if we get ambitious and Randy owes you another favor.”

It was so her, to meet a proposal with a contrarian, impossible escalation.

And it was so us, that my first response wasn’t to say no, but to start immediately scheming how we could do it.

What load bearings we’d need, how to reroute the wiring, whether we could keep the original crown molding if we just reinforced the span with a steel beam.

I let the idea bloom in my head, and within seconds I was already invested.

“I know a guy,” I said, voice deadpan.

She giggled, and I realized that was exactly what I’d wanted—not just for her to say yes, but for her to say yes in her own way, to meet my crazy with her own. We grinned at each other, two idiots in love, and I reached for her hand across the table.

“Deal,” I said. “Let’s build a life we can’t escape from.”

“Even if it kills us,” she replied, squeezing my fingers.

“Especially if it kills us,” I said, and she laughed again, pure and unfiltered.

We ate our sushi on the couch, then fell asleep watching a documentary about beekeeping.