Page 1 of Winter in Kentbury
Chapter One
Jenna
Winter morningsin Kentbury feels like a personal insult.
A harsh, unrelenting chill that cuts right through to the bone. The kind that worms its way under your coat, sneaks past every layer, and zeroes in on that one inch of skin you forgot to cover.It’s not cozy or charming like a snow scene you’d normally find on a postcard.
No. This cold stings and lingers, raw and biting. Outside, the snowflakes drift down, half-hearted and indecisive. They waver between melting and sticking, too hesitant to commit either way. I get it. Some days, I feel just the same.
Inside my flower shop, it’s not much warmer. I keep the air cool enough to preserve the blooms, even if it means sacrificing a bit of comfort. The space is filled with a different kind of chill. One softened by the scent of eucalyptus and roses. The fragrance hangs in the air like a promise that spring isn’t entirely forgotten. I nudge open the cooler door and take in that first, crisp breath of floral-laden air. Even in winter, I can coax life from petals and leaves.
I hum softly as I work, weaving between tables crowded with sprigs of greenery and half-finished arrangements. Grandma Flora always hummed like this, lost in her own rhythm. More times than not, I catch myself humming the same tune that I’ve heard throughout my childhood.
These days, she hums more softly, her hands slower and worn from years of work. But I still see that spark in her eyes when she visits, her fingers hovering over the blooms she once handled so easily. She reaches, but the flowers stay just out of reach. Sometimes, it feels like she’s here working alongside me. Like her presence has seeped into this shop, filling the space with a quiet strength that I try to call my own. I know she’s happy knowing I’ve carried on her love for blooms and her legacy.
Enough nostalgia, Jenna.
I let out a breath, my fingers wrapping around the clipboard with today’s orders. The page is crowded with scrawled names and dates: four wedding bouquets, three centerpieces, a last-minute baby shower, and the looming Harris event.
I sigh, glancing at the tea I left on the counter. It’s probably stone cold, thanks to winter’s “lovely” touch. Regardless, I take a sip, grimacing as the bitter taste hits my tongue. Today I’m gonna need at least two more cups to get through what I need to do—and maybe a croissant from Kneady Kentbury Bakes. Or perhaps three.
Yes, I know tea isn’t coffee. But mine is as dark as it gets, no sugar, no milk. The caffeine has to count for something, right? My mind drifts briefly to the thought of that warm, buttery croissant from across the street, cinnamon-dusted and fresh from the oven. But there’s no time to savor that small joy.
With a sigh, I roll up my sleeves and dive into the first bouquet of the day. Roses, eucalyptus, and white anemones—a simple, elegant arrangement. The simplicity of the bouquet makes weddings look effortless. Spoiler alert: they’re not, in my opinion.
I pinch a rose between my fingers, feeling the softness of its petals before a thorn pricks my thumb. Flowers demand precision, a balance of control and release. I lose myself in the rhythm of it, finding peace in these rituals where beauty and order still exist, even if everything else feels uncertain. I always trust the process.
Winter weddings are a beast of their own—like a blizzard wrapped in satin and lace. Brides want flowers that look freshly dusted with snow, never realizing how fragile these blooms are in the cold.
That’s where I come in. I take their dreams and turn them into something real—frost-kissed centerpieces that survive icy winds and long, late nights. Brides want magic, and somehow, I make sure they get it. No matter how impossible it seems.
Just as I’m wrestling with the arrangement, the bell above the door jingles, letting in a sharp gust of winter air that slips under my collar and sends a chill down my spine.
I keep my focus on the flowers. “If you’re here for the baby shower tulips, I’m still wrangling the ribbon,” I say, pretending the order is further along than it is. No point in telling them I’ll be working on it until the last minute.
“Morning, Jenna.” That voice, warm and familiar, pulls me from the trance of my work.
I turn, and there he is—Grandpa, standing just inside the door, a sprinkle of snow clinging to his coat, his grin radiating the kind of warmth that defies the bitter morning chill. His cheeks are rosy from the cold, and in his hands, he holds a white bakery box from Kneady Kentbury Bakes.
The scent of warm, flaky pastries sneaks through the cracks in the lid, teasing my stomach and stirring a pang of hunger I hadn’t realized was there.
“Brought you breakfast, sweetheart.” He hands me the box with a wink, as if he’s offering me a small slice of happiness wrapped in sweet dough and hopefully a dusting of powdered sugar.
“You are an absolute saint.” I step toward him, pulling him into a quick hug.
He chuckles, setting the box down on the counter. “Nah, just a man who knows when someone’s working too hard and probably skipped breakfast just like their grandma used to do.” His eyebrows lift, daring me to argue. “Did you eat anything today?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, though I can tell he already knows it. “And how are you really, Jenna?”
I flip open the lid and pull out a powdered donut, fully aware that my cardigan will end up dusted with sugar. “Surviving. Barely,” I mumble, biting into the donut and relishing its sweetness.
“Well, try surviving a little slower, will you?” He taps the side of the box, his gaze softening with concern. “Your grandma and me? We’re starting to worry.”
I wave him off, rolling my eyes with the practiced ease of someone who’s brushed off this concern before. “I’m fine. How’s Grandma?” I insist, even as a small part of me wonders if he’s right.
Grandpa’s eyes narrow playfully, his tone gentle but unyielding. “You’re a terrible liar, Jenna Bee.” His voice holds the same warmth it always has, like a blanket I can wrap around myself. “Make sure you come by the house for dinner tonight. You’ll see Grandma then. No excuses.”
“I’ll try,” I say, the words slipping out too easily, even though I know he won’t accept them.
“Nope, no trying—you are coming. Got it? You’ve been working yourself to the bone since you moved into that apartment upstairs.”
