A Very Merry Mess (Cider Cove Sweet Southern RomComs #3)

Emma

EMMA

Above me, the furnace blows softly as I arrange the last of the holiday bouquets at Pretty in Petals. The scent of fresh eucalyptus and lavender seeps out of the back room, where I’ve left the door open as I brought out the prearrangements, mingling with the faint hint of vanilla birthday cake from the candles I’ve lit. I think a first impression takes place within the nose, and if a shop smells nice, people feel more welcome, will stay longer, and have a tendency to spend more.

I’ve only owned Pretty in Petals for a couple of months, and I’ve poured everything I have into this place. Literally every last dime, every spare minute, every ounce of strength. Fresh flowers naturally smell pretty good, though there are some varieties that don’t have a pleasant smell, but I include a stick of vanilla incense in every arrangement that goes out the door, and my repeat customers come back more and more often with that simple change.

“There’s just something magical about vanilla.” I smile at my holiday displays, because I’m hosting the first-ever weekend floral fest in only one more day. All holiday pre-arrangements will be thirty percent off, and I have forty of them prepped. I’ve bought advertising on the radio, the Cider Cove Gazette, and in the flyers for the Christmas Festival, which is happening now, just down the street in the main square.

I’ve put flyers at several local businesses around town too, and I’m hoping to sell out of my pre-arranged flowers—and book up to thirty more before next Friday’s holiday. After all, no table is ever fully dressed until there are flowers. They don’t have to just be for funerals and Valentine’s Day, though I’m already gearing up for that holiday—only seven weeks from now.

I pull out my phone and take some shots of the holiday display, being sure to get my wide splays for big family tables. “The display for this weekend’s sale is ready,” I say as my fingers fly over the keyboard on my screen. I add the details of the sale, and post to all my social media.

Satisfied and happier than I’ve been in a while, I lower my phone, a smile already on my face as the front door of the shop opens. “…in here, Mrs. Grindstaff,” a man says. But an older woman hobbles through the doorway, her face set on Do Not Talk To Me Or I’ll Claw Your Face Off. I should know, because I was raised by a granny who wore this expression perpetually.

Still, my smile remains, because I love Grams with everything I have, and I can’t wait to host her at the Big House for Christmas this year. We’re actually having dinner at the house next door, where Aaron Stansfield lives. Hillary and Liam are coming from California and everything.

And Aaron himself walks into my shop next. Our eyes meet over Mrs. Grindstaff’s head, and his smile lights the whole block. “Hey, ,” he says. His light brown hair is tousled just right—probably done by the December wind—and I swear I’ve lost hours in his hazel eyes. They remind me of a forest—dark pine trees and shadows—and I seriously could wander around in them for a while.

He’s wearing blue jeans and his bulky workman’s boots, along with a dark gray sweatshirt that says Stansfield Tools across the front of it. He leans against the doorframe like he owns the place, which he practically does since his hardware store is right next door. “I found Mrs. Grindstaff next door, trying to pick up her floral arrangement.”

With some difficulty—and a stern self-reminder that I am not feasting on males at the moment—I turn my attention to the white-haired woman between us. “Did you have a call-in order?”

“My daughter did it.” She says this like having a daughter is the worst thing on the planet.

My smile doesn’t slip. “What’s the name?” Part of me wants to reach out and extend my hand to her, like she’ll need help following me to the register near the rear of the store.

“Lucy Simons.”

“Let me check.” I’ve had a lot of orders for the holidays, and I walk back to the register, fully expecting Aaron to leave and Mrs. Grindstaff to follow. Her cane bumps along the floor, and I’m sure she’s chased innocent children off her lawn, that staff waving angrily as she bellows at them not to come back.

And right at her side—Aaron. For some reason, the fact that he didn’t leave throws me a little, and my mind blanks on the name she gave me. One, two, three terrible seconds pass, where I fear I’ll have to show her how forgetful I am, before the name flies into my mind again.

“Lucy,” I practically shout, now tapping on my tablet. The name comes up, thankfully—I really don’t want to know what Mrs. Grindstaff would’ve done had it not—and I see she just ordered a couple of hours ago. My pulse flutters in my chest. “Oh, this arrangement isn’t due for pick-up until Tuesday.”

I look at Mrs. Grindstaff. “Were you supposed to…?” I trail off as the lines between her eyes deepen with her frown. I’m in so much trouble, because I really don’t handle conflict very well. I’m a peacemaker, if Grams is to be believed, and it takes me a long time of knowing someone before I feel comfortable disagreeing with them.

“She said she ordered flowers,” the older woman growls, and I’m not sure I’ve heard a female speak like that before.

“Yes, she did.” I throw a look to Aaron. “For a Tuesday pick-up. Most people order them so they’re really fresh for their parties.”

“When is your family party, Mrs. Grindstaff?” he asks, taking some of the pressure from me. He holds my gaze, which I hope broadcasts my gratitude, for a moment before looking at her.

She actually stomps her cane on my hardwood floors, and I imagine the flowers and plants shrinking back in fright. I certainly jump. “She said she ordered flowers.”

“Yes,” Aaron says without missing a beat. He doesn’t sound placating either. “But when does she need them? Today?”

“How should I know?”

“How about we call her?” Aaron’s eyebrows go up, his smile starshine-bright. He looks at me, and I’m already reaching for the phone. With the number ringing, I extend the phone to him. He takes it and hands it to Mrs. Grindstaff.

Aaron steps closer to the check-out counter, his expression twinkling like fool’s gold. I shake my head, trying to suppress the fluttering in my stomach. I am not dating right now. I’m not. I’ve had enough of men taking advantage of me, or me falling head-over-heels in love on the first date and getting my heart flattened.

Nope. I just need my flowers right now; not a man.

“It smells great in here,” he says, glancing around. “Looks amazing too.”

“Thanks,” I reply, basking in the compliment—and not just because it came from him. “I’m hoping to sell out this weekend and book a bunch more pick-ups for next week before Christmas.”

“Speaking of Christmas,” he says, reaching for a pen I’ve wrapped with floral tape and made to look like a sunflower. “Are you going to the Christmas Festival tonight? I heard there’s going to be a big tree lighting.”

“I was thinking about it,” I admit, though the thought of being around a crowd right now feels daunting. I’ve been avoiding social events lately, mostly due to the fact that I’ve worn all of Lizzie’s cutest modeling clothes, it’s super windy in the evenings, and I don’t have anyone tall, hazely, and handsome to hold hands with. “I might just stay in and binge-watch holiday movies instead.”

“It might be fun,” he insists, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. “You can’t spend the whole season hiding in the Big House.”

“Why not?” I ask, my voice tinged with frustration. “You can’t tell me you want to stand in the cold with a bunch of people you don’t know.”

“If we go together, we’ll be…together.” His smile falls, and my heartbeat lurches against the thin walls of my veins. Is he asking me out?

“We don’t need the flowers until Tuesday,” Mrs. Grindstaff flings the phone at me. Yes, tosses it into the air as if I’m expected to catch it. I yelp; my hands fly up; I actually close my eyes. There’s no way in the Garden of Eden I’m catching that phone, and I fully expect it to clobber me in the nose. Which will start gushing blood, and I’m already embarrassed as my fingers flap against empty air.

“Well, she’s fifty shades of cranky,” Aaron says, and my eyes fly open again. He’s holding the phone and watching as Mrs. Grindstaff plunk-steps her way out of the flower shop. He turns his attention back to me, his adorable smile hitched back in place. He holds up the phone—a clunky, cordless thing that came with the flower shop.

I take it from him with a huff, which only causes him to laugh. “You looked like you were fanning butterflies,” he says, his voice a bit tight. In the next moment, he bursts into laughter, and it’s so much easier to reinforce my male fast when getting laughed at, even if Aaron is all kinds of good-looking and exactly my type.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to buy the rest of my poinsettias, are you?” I fold my arms and cock my eyebrows at the sexy hardware store owner. Well, almost-owner. He’s taking over the shop from his daddy on January first, which is only a couple of weeks from now.

“No,” he says. “But you owe me big for not ordering any this year and pushing everyone here instead.”

“I owe you big, huh?”

“Tree lighting?” He actually smiles while asking again.

I don’t want to dash his hopes. I don’t want to watch him walk away, his tail tucked between his legs. I gesture for him to follow me into the back room. “Have you got a sec?”

“Depends,” he says, but he steps behind the counter and comes with me. The back room is fifteen degrees cooler than the front of the shop, because this is where I keep all my fresh flowers before I arrange them into works of art. I usually wear a sweater or sweatshirt, and sometimes gloves, when I’m working back here for an extended amount of time.

“If you stay and help me get five more arrangements done,” I say, indicating the vases up on the top shelf—where I can’t reach. “I’ll bring the bread pudding to Christmas dinner.”

“I like how this sounds,” he says slowly. “But it doesn’t have ‘tree lighting’ anywhere in it.” He clears his throat and moves over to the shelving that holds the vases. “It wouldn’t be a date. I just want to feel like I’m getting out of the house, doing something festive.”

“Do you have a tree in your house?”

“Not yet.” Aaron reaches up and gets down the first vase. “Liam says there’s stuff in the attic, but…I haven’t had the gumption to get it down yet.”

“So…” I take the vase from him and set it on the counter behind me. I like to line them up and let them talk to me about which kind of flowers they’d like to house. “Maybe we can just do a tree lighting at your place. I’ll come over.” I face him again, take another vase, and meet his eyes. I don’t think he likes me as more than a friend, and I grab onto that idea. Of course I can be friends with a man. I should be friends with men.

“We’ll get your place completely decorated and ready for Christmas dinner,” I say with a smile. “Except for the flowers, of course.”

“And you’ll bring those—with the bread pudding?” He hands me another vase, and I turn to put down the pair I’m holding.

“Yes,” I say decisively. “Five flower arrangements, and I’ll come over tonight to help light your tree.”

“Oh, boy.” Aaron laughs again, the sound so free and so loud in this small room.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say as I swat his bicep.

He’s good-natured and funny, and he lifts down the remaining two vases and puts them on the counter while he finishes chuckling. “I can order dinner or put in one of my sister’s freezer meals. Come by around seven?”

“And it’s not a date?”

“Not a date,” he agrees. “I know you’re not dating right now. I think I just need an excuse to try to enjoy the holidays. Things feel…hectic.”

I nod, because when you own a retail establishment, the holidays definitely feel hectic. “Seven is great, and I don’t care what we eat for dinner.”

“Great.” He sweeps into my personal space, one hand landing on my lower back as his lips brush my cheek. “See you at seven.” With that, he leaves the cold storage room, which suddenly feels like it might burst into flames.

I’ve known Aaron for a while now, and never once—not one time—has he kissed me hello or good-bye. “It’s a Southern thing to do,” I tell myself as reason starts to fill my head again. “He said it wasn’t a date.”

But sometimes, men say one thing and think another. Ask me how I know.