Chapter 2
Ashe
Ihate errands.
I especially hate errands that involve small talk, forced smiles, and shops that smell like potpourri and pastel anxiety—like someone tried to bottle cheerfulness and anxiety together and set it loose in the air vents. The kind of place where every corner has a chalkboard sign with a pun on it, and you just know someone’s going to try and sell you dried lavender wrapped in twine and emotional vulnerability.
But Captain Martinez put me in charge of “bringing a touch of cheer” to the firehouse common room in time for the open house this weekend, and apparently that means buying flowers. From the new shop. The one owned by the woman who almost ranme and my dog over the other day in a truck that looks like it was frosted by a five-year-old with a glitter glue addiction.
I pause outside the door, Smokey sitting dutifully at my side. “Are you ready for round two?” I mutter, eyeing the deceptively charming storefront like it might explode glitter at any moment. Smokey lets out a low huff and lifts his paw, which I choose to interpret as a brave but reluctant yes.
When I open the door, it jingles. Of course it jingles—high and bright and aggressively cheerful, like the damn shop is already judging me for my mood. I swear the bell is in on it with the floral wallpaper and the bucket of bright pink hydrangeas staring at me from the corner.
Inside, the place is... nice. I hate that it’s nice. Bright and airy, not a fake flower in sight. There’s a clean, herbal scent hanging in the air, like lavender and eucalyptus had a well-balanced child. Buckets of flowers line the walls, everything in neat rows and soft colors. The counter’s a slab of reclaimed wood that looks like something Marcus King would have made. The man is not only a police officer in town, but also an expert craftsman.
Then I hear it. The voice. “Oh no, no, no—Peaches, heel! Heel! That is not your friend!”
I don’t have time to process what’s coming. One second, I’m checking out a bundle of cheery, yellow sunflowers. The next, something golden and fuzzy barrels into me from the side. “Shit—” The leash wraps around my legs and I lose all control.
My balance? Gone.
My dignity? Also gone.
I stumble, try to grab the counter, fail spectacularly, and land backward into a display of succulents with the grace of a tranquilized moose. Clay pots shatter everywhere. A cactus lodges itself somewhere deeply personal, and Smokey woofs once and sits like this is any normal Tuesday.
“Oh my God,” Daisy says, breathless—part horror, mostly laughter. She’s got one hand over her mouth like she’s trying to look concerned, but she’s shaking with giggles. “Are you okay? Because I swear, if you broke anything important, I need to know if it’s my display or your tailbone.”
“No,” I say flatly, removing a tiny aloe from my armpit. “Totally fine. Didn’t break anything but my pride. But I’ve been assaulted by a sunflower-colored torpedo.” I turn and glower at Peaches, who just tilts her head and wags like I complimented her instead.
“She’s just excited to see you and Smokey,” Daisy says, unbothered, hauling Peachesoff me by the harness with one hand while using the other to awkwardly sweep up a pile of broken clay shards with a nearby dustpan. She nudges a cactus out of the way with the toe of her boot, muttering under her breath about poor plant placement. “They had a moment the other day, remember? Instant connection. Zero chill.”
“I remember being almost run over by a cupcake on wheels, driven by someone who thought defensive driving meant using sarcasm as a seatbelt. That’s what I remember.”
She reaches a hand toward me, clearly intending to help me up, but before she can, Peaches gives a gleeful wiggle and somehow manages to wriggle right out of her bright pink harness. With a triumphant bark, she bolts across the shop floor and launches herself at Smokey like a furry missile. Daisy gasps and dives after her, trying to both grab the loose harness and sweep up a cluster of shattered pots with the dustpan at the same time, muttering something about needing six more arms. I shake my head and shrug off her attempt to help, already pushing to my feet. “You say run over, I say destined.”
I glare at her as I brush soil off my jeans. Smokey trots over and nudges Peaches, who responds byflopping to the floor and licking his snout with embarrassing enthusiasm. I shoot Smokey a look—betrayal, disappointment, all of it wrapped in a scowl. “Really?” I mutter. “One romantic sniff and you’re on her side now?” Smokey wags his tail and gives Peaches a satisfied lick in return, utterly unbothered by my suffering. I swear he’s enjoying this way too much.
“Are you really okay?” she asks, trying—and failing—to look serious. “Because I do have a first aid kit behind the counter. I think it has band-aids shaped like tulips.”
She disappears for a second, then pops back into view holding up one tulip-shaped bandage between two fingers like it’s a peace offering. “See? Pastel pink and everything. Guaranteed to fix bruised egos and cactus-related trauma.”
“I think I’ll risk infection, thanks.” I give her a look—one part deadpan, one part warning—not to push her luck with the tulip-shaped medical accessories.
She grins, then gently places the bandage back in the kit with mock solemnity. “Suit yourself.” She wipes her hands on a floral apron that says 'Plant One On Me'.
“Do you always bring your dog to work?” I ask.
“Yes, because we live here. Upstairs.” She pointsto the ceiling. “If I leave her alone, there's a real possibility of chaos happening. Which, to be fair, there always is.” She watches me for a second, then tilts her head. “So... why are you here, Lieutenant Grumpypants? You don’t strike me as someone who buys himself spontaneous flowers. Do you need something for the wife? Girlfriend? Both?” She grins and winks.
“No girlfriend or wife,” I say, keeping my tone flat. “The firehouse has an open house this weekend and apparently it needs a cheerful centerpiece. Captain’s orders.” I pause. “Something low maintenance. Nothing crazy.”
She snorts, then glances around the shop with exaggerated studiousness, as if evaluating her own vibe like a scientist cataloging chaos. “So... the opposite of me, got it.”
I say nothing, mostly because it feels like a trap. Like if I answer, I’ll either insult her or admit I don’t totally hate the idea of her chaos. And I’m not ready for either of those outcomes.
She leads me to the back wall. “Okay, so for firehouse-friendly arrangements, we’ve got sunflowers, eucalyptus, maybe some thistle if you’re feeling bold.”
“I'm not feeling bold after the cactus assault.”
