Page 87 of You've Got The Love
‘Wild Ones’looks the same as always—buckets of lilies and alstroemeria by the window, the floor scattered with stray petals, sunlight spilling through glass that really needs a polish.
But I don’t feel the same.
It’s been nearly three months since Dad drove me away fromNorway, since I left Bas standing in that cabin with my heart still in his hands. Months of silence. Months of pretending that coming home was what I wanted. Months of realising his fear is greater than what he feels for me. Months of hurting in silence, as if missing him is the only language I know now.
“Morning, boss!”
Andrea’s voice rings out from behind the hydrangeas. She’s got a rose tucked behind her ear and a streak of yellow pollen on her cheek. “We’ve got a wedding consult at two and three sympathy arrangements for pickup. Also, theVelvetiseris on strike again.”
Jess snorts from behind the counter, her bubblegum-pink pixie cut poking out from under a bandana. “On strike because Andrea here doesn’t clean it properly.Again.”
Andrea gasps, pressing a hand to her chest like she’s been mortally wounded. “Excuse me? I would never neglect our beautiful hot chocolate making goddess.”
Jess rolls her eyes and flicks a petal at her. “Mm-hmm. Tell that to the sad, gurgling noises it made this morning.”
I shake my head, smiling despite the heaviness in my chest. “I’ll grab the descaler later. In the meantime, maybe talk nice to it. Positive reinforcement and all that?”
Andrea crouches down to theVelvetiser, hands in prayer. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie. Keep making that chocolatey goodness for mama.”
Their banter flows around me like sunlight, familiar and warm, and for a moment, I can almost forget the empty space carved out in my chest.
I start trimming roses for the funeral sprays, letting the repetitive motions settle my nerves. The clink of scissors, the rustle of stems—it’s like muscle memory.
Jess leans on the counter, watching me. “You’re awfully quiet today, boss.Again.”
I glance up and force a smile. “Just thinking.”
She tilts her head. “About the Hot Dutchman?”
Andrea straightens so fast she nearly knocks over a bucket. “Ooh, theHotchman?”
I groan, setting down the scissors. “Can we not call him that?”
Jess grins, brown eyes glinting. “What? It’s accurate. He’s hot. He’s Dutch. He’s theHotchman.”
Andrea wiggles her brows. “Did he wear glasses when you…you know?Asking for a friend.”
My face flames. “Andrea!”
Jess cackles. “That’s a yes.Ooooooeeee!Glasses and man-bun—she’s doomed.”
I grab a handful of baby’s breath and shake it at them like a white, fluffy threat. “You two are the absolute worst.”
Jess runs to the door. “Don’t wave that vile stuff at me! Ew.”
Andrea grins, unrepentant. “We’re the best, and you love us.”
I do. God, I do. I just wish love was always that simple.
The ache in my chest pulses again. I bend over the counter, letting the scent of the roses wrap around me. This used to be my happy place. Now every soft pink bloom reminds me of the man I left behind—and the life I could have had if he’d just… fought.
The bell over the door jingles again.
“Welcome to‘Wild Ones’!” Andrea sings, her voice warm.
I glance upand freeze.
A little boy, maybe six or seven, stands in the doorway. Sandy hair sticking out from under a knitted hat, cheeks pink from the December chill. His mittens clutch a single crumpled note.
