Winter in Kentbury (Kentbury Tales #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Jenna

Winter mornings in Kentbury feels like a personal insult.

A harsh, unrelenting chill that cuts right through to the bone. The kind that worms its way under your coat, sneaks past every layer, and zeroes in on that one inch of skin you forgot to cover. It’s not cozy or charming like a snow scene you’d normally find on a postcard.

No. This cold stings and lingers, raw and biting. Outside, the snowflakes drift down, half-hearted and indecisive. They waver between melting and sticking, too hesitant to commit either way. I get it. Some days, I feel just the same.

Inside my flower shop, it’s not much warmer. I keep the air cool enough to preserve the blooms, even if it means sacrificing a bit of comfort. The space is filled with a different kind of chill. One softened by the scent of eucalyptus and roses. The fragrance hangs in the air like a promise that spring isn’t entirely forgotten. I nudge open the cooler door and take in that first, crisp breath of floral-laden air. Even in winter, I can coax life from petals and leaves.

I hum softly as I work, weaving between tables crowded with sprigs of greenery and half-finished arrangements. Grandma Flora always hummed like this, lost in her own rhythm. More times than not, I catch myself humming the same tune that I’ve heard throughout my childhood.

These days, she hums more softly, her hands slower and worn from years of work. But I still see that spark in her eyes when she visits, her fingers hovering over the blooms she once handled so easily. She reaches, but the flowers stay just out of reach. Sometimes, it feels like she’s here working alongside me. Like her presence has seeped into this shop, filling the space with a quiet strength that I try to call my own. I know she’s happy knowing I’ve carried on her love for blooms and her legacy.

Enough nostalgia, Jenna.

I let out a breath, my fingers wrapping around the clipboard with today’s orders. The page is crowded with scrawled names and dates: four wedding bouquets, three centerpieces, a last-minute baby shower, and the looming Harris event.

I sigh, glancing at the tea I left on the counter. It’s probably stone cold, thanks to winter’s “lovely” touch. Regardless, I take a sip, grimacing as the bitter taste hits my tongue. Today I’m gonna need at least two more cups to get through what I need to do—and maybe a croissant from Kneady Kentbury Bakes. Or perhaps three.

Yes, I know tea isn’t coffee. But mine is as dark as it gets, no sugar, no milk. The caffeine has to count for something, right? My mind drifts briefly to the thought of that warm, buttery croissant from across the street, cinnamon-dusted and fresh from the oven. But there’s no time to savor that small joy.

With a sigh, I roll up my sleeves and dive into the first bouquet of the day. Roses, eucalyptus, and white anemones—a simple, elegant arrangement. The simplicity of the bouquet makes weddings look effortless. Spoiler alert: they’re not, in my opinion.

I pinch a rose between my fingers, feeling the softness of its petals before a thorn pricks my thumb. Flowers demand precision, a balance of control and release. I lose myself in the rhythm of it, finding peace in these rituals where beauty and order still exist, even if everything else feels uncertain. I always trust the process.

Winter weddings are a beast of their own—like a blizzard wrapped in satin and lace. Brides want flowers that look freshly dusted with snow, never realizing how fragile these blooms are in the cold.

That’s where I come in. I take their dreams and turn them into something real—frost-kissed centerpieces that survive icy winds and long, late nights. Brides want magic, and somehow, I make sure they get it. No matter how impossible it seems.

Just as I’m wrestling with the arrangement, the bell above the door jingles, letting in a sharp gust of winter air that slips under my collar and sends a chill down my spine.

I keep my focus on the flowers. “If you’re here for the baby shower tulips, I’m still wrangling the ribbon,” I say, pretending the order is further along than it is. No point in telling them I’ll be working on it until the last minute.

“Morning, Jenna.” That voice, warm and familiar, pulls me from the trance of my work.

I turn, and there he is—Grandpa, standing just inside the door, a sprinkle of snow clinging to his coat, his grin radiating the kind of warmth that defies the bitter morning chill. His cheeks are rosy from the cold, and in his hands, he holds a white bakery box from Kneady Kentbury Bakes.

The scent of warm, flaky pastries sneaks through the cracks in the lid, teasing my stomach and stirring a pang of hunger I hadn’t realized was there.

“Brought you breakfast, sweetheart.” He hands me the box with a wink, as if he’s offering me a small slice of happiness wrapped in sweet dough and hopefully a dusting of powdered sugar.

“You are an absolute saint.” I step toward him, pulling him into a quick hug.

He chuckles, setting the box down on the counter. “Nah, just a man who knows when someone’s working too hard and probably skipped breakfast just like their grandma used to do.” His eyebrows lift, daring me to argue. “Did you eat anything today?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, though I can tell he already knows it. “And how are you really, Jenna?”

I flip open the lid and pull out a powdered donut, fully aware that my cardigan will end up dusted with sugar. “Surviving. Barely,” I mumble, biting into the donut and relishing its sweetness.

“Well, try surviving a little slower, will you?” He taps the side of the box, his gaze softening with concern. “Your grandma and me? We’re starting to worry.”

I wave him off, rolling my eyes with the practiced ease of someone who’s brushed off this concern before. “I’m fine. How’s Grandma?” I insist, even as a small part of me wonders if he’s right.

Grandpa’s eyes narrow playfully, his tone gentle but unyielding. “You’re a terrible liar, Jenna Bee.” His voice holds the same warmth it always has, like a blanket I can wrap around myself. “Make sure you come by the house for dinner tonight. You’ll see Grandma then. No excuses.”

“I’ll try,” I say, the words slipping out too easily, even though I know he won’t accept them.

“Nope, no trying—you are coming. Got it? You’ve been working yourself to the bone since you moved into that apartment upstairs.”

He’s not wrong. When Meadow, my best friend and roommate, started dating Raffa McFolley, I figured it was time to give her some space. So, I moved into the small apartment above the shop. It hadn’t been lived in for years, and the dust alone took me days to clean up.

The place is still rough around the edges. The walls need a second coat of paint, the floors need more than a good scrub, and there’s an old furnace that groans every time I turn up the heat. But it’s mine. For now, it’ll do.

Later, I’ll need to replace the stove and maybe even add a few things to make it feel like a real home. For now, I’m living on microwave dinners and air-fried meals. It works. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. The best part of the place is that I can just come downstairs to work when I’m bored—and so what if maybe I’m down here way more than I should be, no one would ever know.

I walk Grandpa to the door, brushing powdered sugar from my fingers as we go. “Thanks again for breakfast.”

He pulls his coat tighter, a smile lingering as he steps outside. “See you tonight, Bee.”

“See you,” I reply softly, holding the door as he steps into the cold. The bell jingles gently as it swings shut behind him, and I watch him disappear down the snowy street, his figure fading into the morning.

Back at the workbench, I set the half-eaten donut beside the arrangement I’d been working on. The shop feels quieter once he’s gone—just me, the flowers, and the ever-growing list of tasks waiting to be tackled. But this part? This is what I love. Just me in my element, no distractions. The rest of the world, the cold, the noise—it all fades away as I lose myself in the careful dance of petals and stems.

I clip a rose stem at a perfect angle, back to humming softly to myself. Getting lost in my own tempo like Grandma did. She used to say flowers bloomed better with a little melody. So I hum, letting the rhythm settle over me, a small comfort in the quiet of the shop.

When the bouquet is finished, my hands are stained green, and my cardigan is speckled with powdered sugar. I lift the arrangement to the light, tilting it slightly, admiring how the roses nestle into the greenery. Outside, the town is waking up under a soft, pale light, everything touched by a gentle winter glow. Peaceful. Almost perfect.

Yet beneath that calm, there’s something else—a quiet unease, like a murmur just out of reach. It’s been lingering for a while now, a restlessness I can’t quite shake. It whispers to me in these quiet moments, filling the silence with questions I don’t yet have answers for. Am I waiting for something? Or maybe . . . someone?

I don’t even know. I push the thought away. There’s no time for mysteries or daydreams, not today.

I check the time on my phone and feel the weight of the hours ahead settle over me. The to-do list is endless, and Knightly’s event won’t come together on its own. I breathe in, steeling myself, and glance down at the finished bouquet in my hands. “Alright, Jenna Santos,” I murmur, placing the delicate arrangement into its vase with care, as if sealing a promise. “Let’s make some magic.”

Winter may not be on my side due to the cold, but at least I have my flowers, each bloom a reminder of resilience. And thanks to Grandpa’s kindness, I’ve got pastries too—a little sweetness to see me through the season.