Page 17

Chapter seventeen

R uby

Hazel burst through the shop door like the human embodiment of a firework—bright, loud, and impossible to ignore.

“I just heard!” she squealed, flinging her arms in the air like she was winning an Olympic medal on my behalf. “Tri-State Bloom & Design Showcase? Are you kidding me, Ruby?”

I stood behind the counter with a pen still hovering above the application form, half-filled and crumpled like my nerves had soaked into the paper.

Hazel didn’t wait for permission. She hopped onto the stool beside the workbench, nearly toppling a bucket of tulips in her excitement.

“This is huge,” she said, eyes dancing. “Like, wear-a-hat-and-sunglasses kind of huge.”

“I’m not sure I even belong there,” I said quietly, tugging a stray thread on my sweater. “These people judge petal curvature, Hazel. Petal. Curvature. They measure stem height like it’s a science experiment and name their arrangements things like ‘Sunset Sonata in F Minor.’”

Hazel wrinkled her nose. “That sounds like something you’d name if you were possessed by Mozart and a bucket of daffodils.”

“Exactly!” I said. “They’re professionals. Trained. Polished. Meanwhile, I once hot-glued a sunflower to a ribbon because I ran out of floral tape.”

“And it turned out amazing,” Hazel countered. “You made a bride cry tears of joy, remember?”

“That’s not exactly the standard of a state-level competition,” I muttered. “What if I show up and they all realize I’m just... small-town chaos in a dress?”

Hazel reached over and gently pulled the pen from my hand.

“Listen to me,” she said, her tone soft but firm.

“You’ve been the flower whisperer of Cedar Springs for years.

You turned this old shop into a living, breathing piece of art.

You’ve made funeral bouquets that brought peace, wedding arches that made people believe in magic, and centerpieces that made grown men stop and stare. ”

I swallowed hard. “But that was here. In my comfort zone.”

She pointed at the form. “So maybe it’s time to see what you can do outside of it.”

My throat tightened. It was easier to stay grounded in the familiar—to surround myself with mason jars and marigolds, to know every creaky floorboard and friendly face that wandered through my door. But maybe growth didn’t come with comfort. Maybe it came with risk.

I looked down at the form. My name was already scrawled in the top corner, and the application deadline was in two days. The official letter sat nearby, along with guidelines, rules, and an entry code that made my stomach twist.

Hazel nudged the pen back toward me. “You can’t let that fear win. Not when you’ve come this far.”

I picked up the pen, hand trembling just enough to notice.

“I feel like an imposter,” I whispered. “Like any second now, someone’s going to tap me on the shoulder and say, ‘Sorry, Miss Shea, we meant Ruby Shaw—the florist in Pine Hollow with the fancy podcast and imported orchids.’”

Hazel let out a snort. “Well, Miss Shea, the only thing you're an imposter of is humility, because you are—without a doubt—the most creative person I know. And if they want fancy orchids, then let them have ‘em. You’ll win hearts with peonies and personality.”

I didn’t reply, not right away. Instead, I looked around the shop. The petals on the counter. The hand-lettered chalkboard above the register. The old wooden ladder draped with ivy and fairy lights. Everything in here had a story. And I’d built it. Bit by bit. Root by root.

I pressed the pen to the paper and filled out the final field.

Entry submitted.

Hazel let out a triumphant cheer that startled a hanging fern. “That’s my girl!”

I laughed in spite of myself, the nervous tension slowly giving way to something gentler. Hope. Excitement, maybe. Still fragile, but real.

“I guess I’m really doing this,” I said.

“You’re not guessing,” Hazel replied, tossing me a wink. “You’re blooming.”

I smiled, shaking my head. Only Hazel could make a pun sound like a battle cry.

“Now,” she continued, hopping down from the stool with purpose. “You need practice. Pressure. Panic. The three Ps of pageantry.”

“That’s not remotely helpful.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “You need flowers, focus, and flair. Better?”

I grinned. “Barely.”

She pulled open the storage cabinet. “Let’s make some mock arrangements. You’re going to blow those judges away, Ruby Shea.”

And just like that, the nerves didn’t vanish—but they found a rhythm. I could do this. Maybe I wouldn’t be the most polished. But I’d be the most me.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

The shop looked like a florist’s fever dream exploded across every surface—vibrant mood boards lined the walls, piles of color swatches fanned across the counter, and fabric samples hung from the light fixtures like tiny banners of ambition.

I stood in the middle of it all, one hand in my hair and the other holding a pair of scissors I couldn’t remember picking up.

“Okay,” I muttered to myself. “Maybe less is more. Or maybe more is more, but only if the more matches the tone of the—”

“Ruby,” Damien called from the back office, where he’d set up a temporary desk with three binders, a laptop, and a never-ending stream of phone calls.

“Yeah?” I called back.

“Have you seen my clinic mock-up? The draft I left on the counter?”

I looked down. It was buried under a sheet of pressed lavender and my third failed attempt at a concept sketch titled Resilience in Bloom.

“Found it,” I said sheepishly, peeling the paper free. “Sorry.”

He stepped into the main room, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, and exhaustion etched into every line of his face. He accepted the paper with a distracted kiss to my temple and a glance at my chaos-strewn workspace.

“Looks like you’re in the zone,” he said, voice kind but distant.

I offered a strained smile. “Something like that.”

We’d been like this all week. Orbiting the same space, touching down just long enough to exchange logistical updates or lukewarm coffee.

Our dinners had morphed into working sessions—him scrolling through funding proposals while I sorted ribbon spools and second-guessed every floral theme I brainstormed.

Last night, I’d fallen asleep mid-sentence while telling him about my vision for a cascading bouquet that represented transformation. When I woke up, the couch beside me was empty and the kitchen light was off.

This morning, I found his clinic sketches on the porch table. A sticky note read, Ran out to meet the architect. You’re amazing. Love you.

It should’ve made my heart flutter. Instead, it just made it ache.

I set down the scissors and stared at the half-finished board. Dozens of ideas—brilliant, colorful, loud. All competing for space. Kind of like the way my thoughts had been lately.

The bell above the shop door jingled, and I jumped.

Eleanor stepped inside, wrapped in a navy shawl that matched the twinkle in her eye. “You look like a woman three seconds away from drowning in glitter.”

I exhaled a laugh. “That’s optimistic. I think I already went under.”

She didn’t wait for an invitation, just walked straight to the kettle and set it to boil like she’d been running the place longer than I had.

“Hazel told me about the competition,” she said, sliding onto the stool beside mine. “I’m proud of you.”

I gave her a grateful smile, then stared down at my mess. “I should be excited, right? But every time I think I’ve got something, it feels... off. Too much. Not enough. Damien and I are both running full tilt and barely looking up long enough to catch our breath, let alone each other.”

Eleanor nodded, folding her hands in her lap. “That man’s got a good heart. But even hearts can forget how to rest.”

I hesitated. “It’s not just him. I’ve been so caught up in proving I belong in that room—with the judges, the designers—I think I forgot why I started this.”

She raised a brow. “And why did you?”

I looked around the shop. At the battered counter, the crooked “Open” sign, the daisy doodle Damien had drawn on a sticky note weeks ago and stuck to the register.

“To make beauty feel reachable,” I said quietly. “To give people hope when they didn’t know they needed it.”

Eleanor smiled, satisfied. “Then you’ve already won something more important than a ribbon.”

I leaned my elbows on the counter, forehead resting on my arms. “I just feel like... Damien and I are growing in different directions. We used to talk about dreams and now we talk about deadlines. I don’t know how to fix that.”

She reached out and gently tugged a yellow ribbon from my hand.

“The trick to keeping a garden,” she said, “is knowing when to prune back... and when to just let things bloom wild.”

I lifted my head. “So... no clear answer?”

She chuckled. “There never is, darling. But if you love something—someone—you find a way to grow side by side. Even if you have to lean a little to stay in the light.”

I stared at her, those words settling into my chest with surprising comfort.

“Thanks, Eleanor.”

She patted my hand. “Now. Make some tea. Then remind that man of yours why he fell for a chaotic little wildflower in the first place.”

I grinned. “You mean sabotage his spreadsheets with peony petals?”

“Exactly.”

As she left, I looked down at my mess again—only now it didn’t feel quite so overwhelming.

Maybe we were just going through a season. Not the end of us. Just a little shade before the bloom.

The garden was quiet in that golden hour where everything felt suspended—like the day was taking a long, slow breath before tucking itself into twilight.

I walked beside Damien along the winding path we’d helped shape together, our hands brushing but not quite laced, the silence between us warm and worn-in.

The invitation letter rested in my pocket, its crisp corners nudging against my thigh like a heartbeat I couldn’t ignore anymore.

I stopped beneath the arbor we’d wrapped in fairy lights for the last ceremony and turned toward him.

“I said yes,” I said softly.

Damien paused mid-step. “To the competition?”

I nodded, pulling out the letter and handing it over. His eyes scanned it, and for a second, something unreadable flickered across his face—pride, surprise... and something else he tucked away too quickly.

“That’s big,” he said, handing it back.

“It is.” I exhaled, heart steady now. “I think I need to do this. Not to win or prove anything to the judges. But to prove to myself that I can stand tall—even outside Cedar Springs. That I’m more than a small-town florist with wild ideas and chaotic curls.”

Damien reached for my hand, lifted it gently, and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. “You’ve always been more than that. You’re... sunshine in human form. Go show them.”

The words wrapped around me like a hug, warm and perfect.

But as I looked at him—really looked—I saw the shadow behind his smile. A hesitation he didn’t voice.

“You okay?” I asked.

He nodded a little too quickly. “Of course. I’m proud of you.”

“Damien.”

He hesitated again, then shook his head. “It’s not about you. It’s just... a long day. Clinic stuff.”

I wanted to press, to dig into whatever was pulling at the corners of his eyes. But something in his tone warned me off—like a door gently closing, not slamming, but still firmly shut.

So I leaned up and kissed his cheek, letting it go. For now.

“Then let’s finish this walk,” I said. “Before the mosquitoes declare war.”

We looped back through the garden path, pointing out new buds and laughing at the crooked stepping stone Hazel had misaligned during setup. We were fine. Still us. Just... stretching.

But deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting—quietly, like roots twisting beneath the soil. I just didn’t know if it was growing us stronger… or pulling us in different directions.

Later that evening, I dropped Damien off at the clinic for his last consult of the day. He kissed me quickly on the sidewalk, promising to be home in an hour.

I watched him disappear into the building’s double doors, the automatic glass swallowing him whole.

Inside, the lights flickered on.

I didn’t know then that the girl waiting for him in that consultation room would change everything.

That her chart would list symptoms he knew too well.

That her case would wake up something in him he’d tried to bury deep beneath small-town routine and garden beds.

But I would know soon.

And when I did... everything would bloom and break all at once.