“I’m fine,” I replied, turning to look at him. “I need this. The normalcy.”
He studied me for a moment, then nodded once more. “We’ll be close if anything comes up.”
With that, he stepped back, as if recognizing the boundary between help and hovering. He didn’t linger. Just quiet reassurance in the shape of readiness. I respected that. Needed that, even.
As he turned to go, I caught the faintest twitch of his lips—less a smile, more a flicker of acknowledgment—and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Alone, finally, I exhaled deeply and reached for the first tray of florist wire, letting the silence of the greenhouse settle around me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Thegreenhousewastheone place in the world that felt entirely mine.
Warm, fragrant air wrapped around me like a familiar blanket, the scent of damp soil, citrusy eucalyptus, and tender petals clinging to everything. My shears clicked rhythmically as I trimmed stems and sorted vases. The hum of the heater blended with the distant chirp of birds outside the glass, the morning sun throwing golden light across the tables.
Here, the world made sense. Flowers didn’t lie. They bloomed or they didn’t. They needed care, patience, time. All things I could give.
So when the door creaked open, I flinched—not because I was afraid, but because peace never lasted long these days.
I turned, half-expecting Gabriel with another request, or Dakota with that quiet, brooding tension he carried like a shadow. But instead, it was Lucas.
He stood in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come in, shoulders broad beneath a soft gray hoodie, curls a little tousled like he’d run his hands through them more than once.
“Oh,” I said, lowering my shears. “Not who I expected.”
Lucas gave a small, sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Dakota’s out getting the flower delivery. Figured I’d keep you company until he gets back.”
I tilted my head. “Company or surveillance?”
His smile widened, boyish and crooked. “Little of both, maybe. I promise I won’t knock over anything... unless it attacks first.”
I snorted despite myself and motioned him in. “Fine. There is nothing to attack you here….yet.”
Lucas chuckled and stepped inside, walking slowly, respectfully, like the greenhouse was a church and he didn’t want to disturb the altar. His eyes moved across the rows of dirt, the hanging planters, and then back to me.
“This place is... something else,” he murmured, stopping beside a table to stand beside me. “Feels like you could breathe here and mean it.”
That caught me off guard. I blinked at him, before I laughed at his words. “Most people just say it smells nice.”
“They’re not wrong,” he said, bending to sniff a bunch of mint tucked behind the rosemary. “But there’s something else. Feels like it’s alive.”
“It is,” I said softly. “Or at least, it lets me feel like I am.”
We stood there for a beat, the soft clink of scissors and tools in the background as sunlight filtered through the high greenhouse windows, catching the loose strands of my hair and dancing across the wooden table. Then I motioned toward the bins of ribbon piled beside us—satins, velvets, organza, all rolled in tight spirals, waiting.
“If you’re serious about helping,” I said, nodding toward the spools, “I could use an extra pair of hands. We’ve got bouquets and arrangements to prep for once the flowers arrive. That means bows. Lots of them.”
Lucas approached the table cautiously, eyeing the ribbons like they might detonate. “Never made a bow in my life,” he admitted, though he sounded more intrigued than hesitant.
“Perfect,” I replied, pulling a length of navy satin off its spool. “Unbiased. Teachability is key. Just don’t touch the glitter ribbon unless you want to sparkle every time you breathe for the next six months.”
His brows lifted as he picked up the navy I’d indicated. “Noted. Glitter equals eternal punishment.”
“Basically.” I handed him a pair of sharp, worn-handled scissors. “Cut these into twelve-inch strips. Three per bow. Then we’ll tie them into something resembling symmetry and not a sad pretzel.”
He rolled up his sleeves without protest and got to work. I watched him for a moment, expecting some clumsy fumbling or a sarcastic comment, but he surprised me. He cut slowly, yes, but each strip was measured and clean. His movements were careful, deliberate. The kind of careful that came from knowing what precision was worth.
We worked in silence for a few minutes, the rhythmic snip of scissors and the soft rustle of ribbon becoming a kind of quiet music.
