Marceline and Bubblegum padded over to Holden for their morning greeting, and once they'd received their scritches, both of them made their way to the dog beds by the window. Bubblegum curled tight while Marceline sprawled with her belly up. They'd stopped even pretending to explore when we arrived. The shop was theirs now, and they knew it.
The week settled into rhythm without either of us deciding it should.
Mornings I spent at Hutchinson Florals, working with the walk-in customers, checking for online orders, and making some local deliveries in the refrigerated store van. I'd started wearing layers I could peel off as the shop warmed up: a rust-colored sweater over a thermal, my beat-up Converse that Holden kept eyeing like he wanted to throw them in a fire and buy me real winter boots. By Wednesday I'd stopped bothering with the sweater entirely, just working in my thermal with the sleeves pushed up, the dog-ear tattoo on my wrist visible every time I reached for ribbon or tape.
Afternoons at the coworking space, catching up on client projects while Brandy shuffled listings and pretended not to watch me over her reading glasses. The contrast between the two spaces was stark. The shop smelled like flowers and cold, refrigerated air. The coworking space smelled like Brandy's lemon-scented hand lotion and stale coffee, fluorescent lights humming overhead. I'd started noticing I was more relaxed at the shop.
Evenings blurred together. Dinner at Holden's apartment above the shop or mine across town, the dogs adapting to the migration with the easy confidence of animals who'd learned their people would figure things out. A bag of dog food had appeared in Holden's kitchen by Tuesday. Neither of us mentioned it.
Valentine's orders kept stacking up. The whiteboard behind the counter filled with Holden's handwriting, dates and names and special requests I'd learned to decode. When a woman came in Thursday looking for something for her mother's birthday, I handled the whole interaction while Holden finished a piece in the back. Suggested the peach roses instead of pink. Wrapped the bouquet without tearing the paper. Rang it up on the ancient register that had finally stopped fighting me.
Holden nodded when I showed him the receipt. Didn't say anything, but he touched my lower back as he passed, warm through my thermal.
We moved around each other without thinking now. He'd reach for the scissors and I'd already be sliding them across the counter. I'd turn from the cooler and find him there with the bucket I needed. Our shoulders brushed in the narrow space behind the register. Small collisions that neither of us tried to avoid.
Mags at the Copper Kettle had started calling me “Holden's boy.” Mrs. Morgansen from the bakery stopped by Wednesday with leftover scones and told us we made a lovely couple. The hardware store guy, Dennis, I'd finally learned, waved through the window like we'd known each other for years.
Nobody asked if we were together. They just assumed, which meant the arrangement was working.
Thursday afternoon, I packed up early from the coworking space. The brewery had finally approved version eleven of their logo, and I'd earned a night off. Brandy was still at her desk, bright green reading glasses perched on her nose, a stack of listing folders spread around her like a nest.
“Heading out, hon?”
“Holden's closing the shop in an hour. Thought I'd walk over.”
She set down her pen. Took off her glasses. The gesture felt deliberate in a way that made me pause.
“Sit down a minute.”
I sank into my chair, something tightening in my chest.
“Brandy, if this is about the rent—”
“It's not about the rent.” She folded her hands on the desk, nails freshly done in pink. “I've been in real estate twenty years, Jamie. You learn to read people. When they're excited about a house, when they're just going through the motions.” She paused. “When they're staging a showing versus when they're actually home.”
My mouth went dry.
“Last week, when you told me about Holden? Staged.” She held up a hand before I could respond. “Don't bother denying it. You were too careful, too rehearsed. Selling me something instead of just telling me.”
“I don't know what you—”
“But this week.” Her voice softened. “Yesterday you came in here humming. You're checking your phone and smiling at whatever's on it.”
Heat crept up my neck. I thought about denying it, but Brandy's eyes were kind, and I was tired of keeping track of what I was supposed to be pretending.
“Is it still fake?” she asked. “The thing with Holden?”
I opened my mouth to answer.
Nothing came out.
The question should have been simple. Yes or no, true or false, a deal or something else. But the deal had terms: three weeks, through Valentine's Day, hand-holding and public dinners and occasional kisses for show. We'd shaken on it at the Copper Kettle while the whole town watched through the windows.
None of that accounted for the way he'd kissed me this morning before I left, slow and thorough, no one watching, no one to perform for.
Between that first kiss in the park and today, my universe had turned on its axis, wildly spinning, and I wasn't sure what was real and what was fake anymore.
Get used to it, I'd told him.I'm not done touching you.