Page 3 of Forget-Me-Nots and Apricots

"Need a hand with those roses?" I ask, moving over before he can answer.

"Maybe," he says. "They're for the—"

"Retirement party," I finish. "Got it."

We work side by side, my pace pulling him along like we're caught in a current. "I keep thinking we won't finish in time," he admits, glancing at me like I'm a life raft.

"We will," I say. "Trust me. I've done this dance before."

We fall silent, just the rustle of petals and snip of scissors filling the space. He's calming down, losing himself in the routine, and I match my rhythm to his until I can feel the tension dissolve like sugar in tea. I know he doubts, worries, but we move in tandem now, his speed picking up as he finds the flow.

"I think we're getting there," he says, tentative but hopeful.

"We are," I say, nudging him with an elbow. "And with time to spare."

His smile reaches his eyes this time, and the worry lines fade. We finish the last of the orders, the morning behind us, and it's only then that he leans back and stretches his arms like he's just been released from a binding spell.

"Why did I ever doubt you?" he says, more to himself than to me.

"You'll learn," I tease, knowing that he might not but loving him for it anyway. I move to the door to prop it open, letting in a cool breeze to clear the air, already thinking of the next round and knowing Jamie is, too, but knowing now he can breathe.

The bell jingles as the door swings open, and I expect a customer, but instead, a familiar figure steps inside. Mrs. Reynolds, the elderly woman who owns the bakery next door, bustles in with a plate covered in a checkered cloth. Her kind, wrinkled face is bright with a knowing smile.

"I figured you two wouldn't stop for breakfast," she says, placing the plate down on the counter. "Fresh scones. Still warm."

Jamie groans dramatically. "You’re a saint, Mrs. Reynolds."

I peel back the cloth, inhaling the scent of butter and Lavender. "You’re enabling our bad work habits."

She winks. "Just making sure you don’t pass out before finishing those orders. Busy morning?"

"The usual chaos," I say, grabbing a scone and passing one to Jamie, who takes it like it's the first meal he's seen in days. "But we’re surviving."

Mrs. Reynolds hums in approval. "Good, good. Well, I’ll let you two get back to it. Just promise me you’ll eat."

Jamie salutes her with his half-eaten scone. "Wouldn’t dream of letting your hard work go to waste."

She chuckles and heads for the door. "I like you, Jamie. Keep this one around, Vivian."

"I’ll think about it," I say with mock seriousness.

Jamie scoffs. "Rude."

As the door swings shut behind Mrs. Reynolds, I glance at the clock. "Alright, break's over. Back to work."

Jamie groans but obeys, and just like that, we’re back in the rhythm of it, surrounded by flowers, laughter, and the comforting weight of routine.

Chapter Three

Thealphaloomedinthe doorway like a storm incarnate—a towering figure cloaked in a leather jacket that screamed arrogance. His mere presence seemed to weigh down the air, thickening it with unspoken threats and simmering disdain. “Is this going to take much longer?” he drawled, his voice low and saturated with entitlement, reverberating off the shop’s walls like a loaded gunshot.

I don’t even need to see Jamie’s face to know he’s straining to maintain a semblance of calm. His shoulders square and his eyes remain fixed on the counter, where the flicker of fluorescent lights meets the neatly arranged order slips.

“We had a lot of orders this morning,” Jamie explains calmly, his tone laced with forced courtesy as he stacks layer upon layer of politeness. “I can check for you again.” His voice wavers just slightly under the weight of the confrontation, as if every word carries the burden of unvoiced apologies.

The alpha’s smirk broadens into a disdainful curl of his lips, revealing the stark contrast of his teeth against the smudged leather of his attire. “You think I have time for you to ‘check again’?” he retorts, his tone dripping with scorn.

“We’re doing our best,” Jamie replies, mechanically flipping through the order sheet—a flimsy hope that the paper might rearrange itself to suit the alpha’s impatient demands. His hands, though steady in their duty, betray hints of tension; the constriction of his jaw, and the even cadence of his strained voice, all speak of an internal battle against the rising fury within.

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