Mum didn’t understand why I’d leave London at all.
“You’re moving where?” she’d asked, her voice echoing down the phone like I’d announced I was emigrating to the moon.
“Cumbria.”
“That’s not a real plan. That’s a phase.”
“It’s a flower shop.”
“In a village.”
“In a village,” I confirmed.
“With sheep.”
“They’re very charming sheep.”
She’d sighed then, the kind of sigh only mothers can produce. Heavy with concern and judgement and love tangled together.
“You built a life here, Christina.”
“I’ll build another one there.”
And I had.
Blossom & Bloom sits on Fellside’s main street with big front windows and old wooden floors that creak like they have opinions. Emma handles the numbers. I handle the people. It works because Emma prefers the safety of spreadsheets and I prefer the unpredictability of humans.
Most days, I love it here.
I love the quiet. The mountains watching over everything like silent witnesses. The way people greet you by name once you earn your place.
I chose this life.
Which makes the fact that one painfully shy handyman can unravel me slightly ridiculous. Especially one who’s six foot tall, with dark blond hair, blue eyes, and the wiry strength of someone built for mountains rather than the gym.
Emma follows my gaze to the door Phil disappeared through.
“You know,” she says carefully, “you don’t have to keep chasing him.”
“I’m not chasing him,” I say automatically.
She raises an eyebrow.
“I’m… encouraging him,” I amend.
“With psychological warfare?”
“With charm.”
Emma snorts softly.
The truth is, I don’t understand him.
Most men meet my confidence with confidence of their own. They flirt back. They lean in. They play the game.
Phil freezes.
He looks at me like I’ve stepped into his carefully ordered world and rearranged the furniture without asking.