It should annoy me.
Instead, it makes me curious.
Because when he forgets to be nervous, when something catches him off guard and he reacts without thinking, there’s something else there. Something warm. Something real.
I’ve seen it in flashes.
Enough to keep me trying.
“I’ll tone it down,” I say finally.
She studies me for a moment, then nods.
“Good.”
I drain the rest of my drink and stand.
“I’ll head to the Cherry Pie bakery,” I say lightly. “If I stay here, I’ll start analysing his exit strategy like it’s a crime scene. What I need is the biggest éclair ever.”
Alex laughs. Emma squeezes my hand.
I pretend I don’t need as special someone.
Blossom & Bloom smells like eucalyptus, damp stems, and fresh roses when I unlock the door just after eight. It’s my favourite moment of the day, before customers arrive and before decisions need to be made. The flowers exist purely as themselves, unapologetically beautiful and briefly alive,and there’s something comforting about being surrounded by things that don’t pretend permanence.
Emma is already here, of course. She’s in the back room with her laptop open and her shoulders slightly hunched, her brow furrowed in concentration. Numbers soothe her. Where I seek out chaos and connection, Emma seeks out order. Between us, we manage to run a business and a life that neither of us could have built alone.
I slip behind the counter and start preparing the Friday deliveries. The unsold arrangements sit in a neat row, still vibrant, still worthy. Mum always hated throwing flowers away.
“Just because something isn’t profitable anymore doesn’t mean it’s not valuable,” she used to say whenever I tried to clear out older stock back at her own stall in London. She’d rescue them, trim the stems, rearrange them, and find somewhere they could still exist.
That’s how the retirement home deliveries started.
At first, it was practical. The arrangements were too beautiful to bin and too tired to sell. The retirement home was close enough to reach between customer orders, and the residents appreciated the colour. It gave the flowers a second life and gave us an excuse to step away from the shop for half an hour.
My phone buzzes against the wooden counter, pulling me from my thoughts. Mum’s name flashes across the screen.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“Hi.”
“Christina,” she says, and I can hear the city behind her. Traffic. Movement. London, still alive and impatient. “How are you?”
“Alive,” I reply. “Thriving. Surrounded by aggressive amounts of fresh air and livestock.”
She hums softly, unconvinced.
“And the shop?”
“Still standing.”
“And you’re happy?”
Even after a year living up here, she is still asking me every time we speak.
I glance around the shop. At the light spilling through the tall front windows. At Emma’s silhouette through the door. At the life we built from scratch in a place neither of us were supposed to stay.
“Yes,” I say, and this time it isn’t a performance. “I am.”