Page 3 of Almost Always

“Ohno.” Clearly multitasking didn’t include staying on top of her schedule for the day.

“We’re early,” Frankie insisted.

Daisy hurriedly dropped the flowers into the bucket at her feet, swiping her hand over the table to collect fallen leaves and petals.

“Breathe.” Frankie’s hands landed on her shoulders.

“Okay, breathing.” Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and released it, feeling the tension in her body dissipate.

“You good?”

Nodding, she took off the cap and undid her messy braids. With a quick fluff of her thick hair, she smoothed down her clothes and smiled. “All right, let’s do this.” Together they walked towards the large table where a young couple were seated. “Hi, Welcome to Daisy’s Patch.”

Hours later, after Frankie and the newly engaged couple had left, Daisy was rearranging her schedule as her mind wandered through random thoughts—Rafferty, Clarke, the dating app she needed to delete, what she was having for dinner. The young girl who worked part-time at her grandaunt’s flower shop might have dreamed about this, but Daisy never imagined it would come to fruition.

Looking around the shop, with her staff pottering around in their matching aprons, she smiled. “You did good, kid.”

When she’d started the Patch, she was looking to fill a gap in demand after the last florist shut shop. The store had been a tiny room full of flowers and a single take-out style window through which she took orders. Her stock was fresh, but minimal and gone by the end of the day. In the ten years since, she’d expanded into what the shop was now. As the only florist in Wildes, there was never a shortage of customers and she’d hired a small, but capable, staff of four to help with everything. Not only was she catering to walk-ins, she worked exclusively with Wildes Events & Weddings, helping Frankie and Ginny with anything that required flowers.

She’d done her best not to look into what other florists were doing, because Daisy had a particular style. One she picked up from her grandaunt Magnolia. If she was working a celebration that was focused on one person or a couple, her arrangements were built around them. Every project started with a face-to-face meeting where she’d get into the nitty-gritty—understanding their personalities, hearing their stories and aspirations for the future. Based on this, she’d choose the perfect flowers. Yes, thebouquet needed to be beautiful, but there was so much more to flowers than just putting them together.

Aunt Magnolia always reminded her while wonderful to look at, every flower symbolized something. Daisies were for happiness, roses for love, carnations for admiration, and so on. It was definitely easier to pair flowers that looked good together, but at the Patch she wanted to be known for more. She never refused customers who had fixed ideas in mind, because it wastheircelebration after all, but she always tried to include a little something more; the one element that would elevate the final product.

“Shit, forgot to call Bear,” she muttered, gathering her hair on top of her head before reaching for her phone.

“I’ll never get used to you talking to yourself,” a lilting voice said and Daisy smiled at the blonde on the other side of the table.

“You should try it sometime, it’s quite liberating.”

Eden snorted. “Thanks, but no thanks. You good?”

“Yeah.” She gestured to Eden’s apron-less form. “Heading out?”

“Got a date with my couch and reruns. Need anything from me?”

“Nope. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Eden tapped the table with her knuckles and walked out, the sounds of the shop coming back into focus around her. In the time she’d been daydreaming, the store had been cleaned up and everything put back into their right place. Soft indie folk rock still pumped through the overhead speakers and the refrigerators hummed quietly. She dialed the number for Bear’s Botanics, her main distributor, and got his machine. She left a quick message reminding him about her dwindling stock. Once that was done, she gathered her things, locked the front door and flipped the sign toclosed. As she walked to her office, sheturned off the big lamps. Standing in the doorway to her small office, she looked at her shop one more time.

I’ll never get sick of this view.

The Patch was one large room with the main wall covered in racks and shelves to hold the flowers. Opposite that were tall windows that brought in natural light. At one end was the Flower Station, a long high table with matching stools. Hanging off the sides of the table were small baskets with scissors, ribbon and other decorative tools. A new addition, it was one of her favorite things about the shop. Especially when kids came in and wanted to work with flowers. Alongside that was the table where she held most of her meetings, tucked against the wall to provide a little privacy.

The remaining furniture that filled the middle of the shop was covered in pots and planters for purchase, along with succulents and smaller indoor plants. While flowers were her primary focus, she knew offering more was always a good idea. A lattice screen blocked off the other side of the shop, where her staff worked on walk-in orders. Four glass door refrigerators took up the entire back wall.

She’d poured her heart, soul and life savings into the shop after her divorce, building something for herself to distract from the misery. And she was so proud of the beautiful space it had turned into.

Her phone started buzzing as she was walking out and knew who it was. Swearing under her breath, she locked the back door and hopped into her blue pick-up. They’d been friends long enough that she knew exactly what the contents of the texts were without looking at the screen.

“Yeah, yeah, I know I’m late,” she said out loud, as she drove to the newest bar in town, One Trick Pony.

Pulling into the remaining spot in the parking lot, she smoothed down her hair, swiped on lipgloss and mascara before hurrying inside. It took her eyes a minute to adjust to the dull lighting, and saw her best friend. Seated at one end of the counter, Monroe Bower was nursing a beer while talking to the pretty bartender. Her best friend was her complete opposite—blonde hair cut into a messy bob, green eyes, white skin peppered with freckles, nose ring and zero tattoos.

Somehow they seemed to fit just right.

She climbed onto the stool, gesturing at her friend’s drink with a smile at the bartender.

“You’re late.”

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