‘Thank you, Rachel, for leading me to my perfect match.’ Amy raised her glass in the air. ‘To Rachel.’
‘To Rachel,’ they all chorused before drinking from their flutes.
The rest of the afternoon was cheerier than their usual lunches as they talked about wedding plans and the future. And, all the while, jealousy sat on Sam’s shoulder like a raven with sharp clawing talons.
Sam stayed after everyone else had left to help clean up. He arrived home in the afternoon with a heaviness he couldn’t shake. He dressed in a pair of work pants and a light long-sleeved shirt and headed out the back.
Decompression time.
Ellie would be here soon to collect her order, and he wanted to be in a decent frame of mind before she arrived.
She hadn’t been at the shop yesterday when he’d dropped the price list off, so he’d slipped it under the shop door. He didn’t know what to make of her absence. Perhaps she had still been asleep.
But that’s what all this was about. Why did he care so much? Why could he not get Ellie out of his head?
As he weeded, fertilised and watered, anger burned a path through his veins. He was angry at himself. For being jealous of his own brother. For obviously wanting more than what his current relationship situation, or lack thereof, offered. And, mostly, for lying to Ellie’s face Friday afternoon.
He knew he had lied the moment the words, ‘I’m not looking for a relationship’ sprung from his throat. He knew he was lying because of the dissonance in his body those words had caused—continued to cause.
But why now, all of a sudden, did he want more?
Was it because of what he’d been through over the last twelve months with Rachel’s death? Was it because he was getting older? Was it Ellie?
He shook his head as he busted open a bag of soil and started shoving it into big clay pots. The moist soil between his fingers, the earthy scent, eased his taut muscles.
He squeezed at the soil, feeling the cool grittiness on his palms and fingers, then lumped it into a pot. Over and over again.
He hated this! Feeling like this. Not being in control of his thoughts and emotions. This is exactly why he stayed away from relationships.
He had once allowed love to consume him, change him, control him; it almost killed him. He wouldn’t couldn’t let that happen again.
‘Hey,’ came a woman’s voice. He knew who it was from how his body reacted to hearing her voice, a subtle tightening in his lower abdomen—like an aching and yearning both.
He spun to face Ellie, dusting his soiled hands on his work pants. She stood in the doorway, gorgeous as he’d ever seen her, smiling. So lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t even heard her car pull up outside.
‘Hi,’ he said with an undertone of ice—he needed to detach himself from all that Ellie represented. And if that meant keeping things professional, then he was all for it. Hell, he was the fucking king of professional because it meant he was in control.
Her smile fell from her face and up went a well-learned mask of impartiality. Seeing that morphed the aching in his abdomen into something much stronger and much less pleasant. God, he was such a fucking arse.
But this was how it had to be. He had no room in his body, let alone his heart, for anything remotely close to, dare he even articulate it, love.
‘I’m here to collect my order,’ she said, mirroring his ice with her own.
Again, the unpleasantness in his gut stirred. He was not only a big arse, but he hated himself for being that way. ‘I packed them this morning. Is your van parked out the front?’
A slight hesitation, a subtle narrowing of her eyes that betrayed the confusion she truly felt, and then as soon as it arrived, it was gone. ‘Yes. I’ll help you carry them to the car. I don’t want to bother you for any longer than I have to.’
There were a million ways he could respond to that. But the big fucking arse side of himself put its big arse hand up and said, ‘That would be helpful.’
A few silent trips down to her car, and she was climbing inside her van and driving away. And he watched her go.
Despite the frown on his lips, the heaviness in his chest, the curdling sickliness in his gut, he had done what was best for everyone.
Chapter 5
Ellie could barely contain herself as she opened the front doors of In Bloom and stroked the Open placard that hung from the doorhandle, eager to turn it around and announce to the world that she was ready for business.
She had dropped Sam’s flowers in late yesterday afternoon. Not that she wanted to remember now how cold that interaction with him had been. Despite leaving his property feeling confused, she was also equal parts grateful he was cold because she didn’t have to fend off a lust-fuelled hormone assault from within.
But none of that mattered now. Today was the big day she had been waiting for.
The beautiful blooms were waiting in the room out back, which was fitted with a big refrigeration unit and humidifier to preserve the flowers. Cost her a small fortune, but wasted stock was the fastest way to lose profits.
She hoisted open the door and bundled the kangaroo paws, wax flowers, crowea, thryptomene and tiger lilies into her arms before laying them on the timber work bench. She snipped the stems, tore off the leaves.
The aromatic oils in the leaves and petals of the thryptomene filled the air with a familiar perfume. Ellie breathed it in, excitement swelling in response. A wide grin stretched across her face as her imagination was ignited.
No greater feeling than to be practising her art after a year off.
Once sorted into bunches, she displayed the flowers in the big vases that sat in the main room.
The tell-tale beeping of a reversing truck sounded from the side driveway. The delivery man wheeled in large tubs of farm fresh flowers in an assortment of colours. As he rushed them to the preparation room for her, the store was permeated with a mishmash of sweet aroma.
Her shop sprung to life—with scent, vibrancy, and possibility.
Ellie sniffed at the air and warmth curled in her chest. Was this the most wonderful smell in the world? The most wonderful sensation that these raw, untampered flowers would be transformed into artistic representations of love, enticement, thanks, apology, sympathy, or congratulation?
When the delivery man left, she stared at the flowers—all familiar. She knew what she had to do. How to do it.
But this was the first time in her life that she was in charge, completely.
There was no-one to answer to. No-one else reaping the rewards. No-one else bearing the consequences.
It all came down to her. And that was both frightening and exhilarating.
With an undercurrent of nerves rushing through her hands, she put aside a large portion of her stock in the refrigeration room to be used during the coming week. She left aside today’s supply of mixed tulips, orchids, natives, wildflowers, every colour rose, and bundles of lush foliage in varying shades of green to the preparation shelf.
Over the next hour, she trimmed and pruned and bundled until the front house was full of colour and aroma.
Ellie spun in a circle, taking in all that she had created. With the rustic timbers and light palette placed alongside powder pink and magenta Oriental lilies, white orchids, and red, orange and yellow roses, she could believe she was in a quaint Parisian side-alley store that only the locals knew about.
This was it. The time was now. The start of it all. That knowledge fought away her nerves and bloomed in her cells like flowers after rain.
During the week, after door knocking businesses, Ellie had secured weekly deliveries for the local hotel’s reception, the pub’s dining room as well as the town’s solicitor office, small medical centre, and accounting firm.
With a set budget in mind, she set about preparing the arrangements.
Ellie always arranged by intuition. Each creation appeared in her mind like a puzzle. Her job was to fiddle, layering flowers, taking those away that didn’t fit, unt
il all the pieces clicked together and made a harmonic whole.
The harmony would sing in her body, as well as the discord, like a series of musical notes plucked on a harp that vibrated within her. And Ellie didn’t stop until each note felt just right.
For the medical centre, she would create a healthful, calming arrangement; the accounting firm’s flowers would be bright but professional; the solicitors would receive a bold and hard-hitting bunch; and, for the pub, she would arrange long-lasting natives that blended with the country feel of the place.
Over the years, through lots of hard work and long hours, Ellie developed a unique insight into not only what the customers wanted, but what they needed, and what would work best for their particular situation.
It was like a sixth sense almost.
Starting with one statement flower, Ellie carefully buzzed between the vases choosing flowers of complementing colour, texture and height, building and building, one stem pressed to the next in a circular fashion until the arrangement was born within her fist. Each flower was in tune with the key of the imagined melody.
After the six bundles of flowers were in perfect order, she tore off long strips of ribbon to tie around the various boxes and baskets the arrangements sat in. These would be her first deliveries before she opened the shop to the public.
With a satisfied smile, she positioned the flowers in the fixed pots in the back of her van and set off.
It had been many years since she’d performed the deliveries herself.
Meeting the publican and seeing the way her mouth had dropped open, then the rapturous smile that spread across her face, reminded Ellie of how thrilling it could be.
Even the stern solicitors had chuckled and giggled when she had strode into their conservative office and placed the hard-hitting, no-nonsense arrangement of greens and white and punches of red onto the receptionist’s desk.
Outside of sympathies and death, no-one was ever upset to see flowers.
When back at the shop, Ellie turned the Open placard over with a squeal, followed by quick jumps up and down on the spot—her very own florist shop was open.
Ellie ran through the email orders first, tackling them one at a time in between telephone orders.
By mid-morning, she got her first walk in: an attractive man whom she guessed was in his mid-twenties. He wore jeans and a checked flannelette shirt, boots and an Akubra.
‘Can I help you?’
She bit back her smile when he met her gaze, and she caught the full remorseful expression on his face. Oh dear, someone has been a naughty boy.
‘Just after a nice bunch, you know, for a girlfriend.’ Even the way he said ‘girlfriend’ was meek, as though he was questioning if he could still call her that.
Ellie arched a brow. ‘Any particular reason for giving them?’ She already knew the answer but had to play the game.
The man shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at his boots.
‘Perhaps a bunch that represents heartfelt apology and evokes forgiveness?’ she suggested—no judgement at all.
He nodded. ‘Yeah, you know, that sounds like what I’m after.’
Ellie smiled as he met her gaze again. ‘Let’s see what I can do. How much trouble are you in exactly?’
‘A decent amount.’
‘So quite a decent sized bunch?’
He nodded quickly. ‘Sounds ‘bout right.’
‘Any colour she prefers?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Pink?’
He had no clue. Her insight was telling her that this relationship was still quite fresh—he’d not bought her flowers yet. Ellie skipped between the vases, grabbing bright pinks and golden orange roses along with dark green foliage. She needed rich, elegant flowers in darker tones. Not fun or frivolous.
These flowers had a serious task to do and needed to be serious in their tone, yet so breathtakingly beautiful his girlfriend couldn’t possibly remain angry.
Ellie held the finished bunch out before her, then lowered it, turned it right, then left, ensuring the melody of flowers was …’Perfect,’ she said. ‘These should do the trick.’
At the counter, she bound an elastic band around the stems, tore off black paper, which she wrapped around the roses on an angle, then finished it with a burlap tie.
She handed the glorious sunset over to the man. ‘What do you think?’
He spun the big bunch in his hands and actually smiled. ‘I think she’ll really like these.’
‘Perhaps even enough for her to accept your apology,’ Ellie said with a grin.
‘Let’s hope so.’
She handled the money, then the man left.
Ellie was buzzing for the rest of the day. It had been many many months since she’d felt that fizzy excitement of intuition flowing through her veins.
The first couple of days of In Bloom’s opening week was the same page of the story. But as the week progressed, handling email and phone orders, along with walk-ins, then all the deliveries three times a day on her own, her creativity and insight floated away on a stream of stress.
Then came Friday.
Friday was as hectic as an unpruned garden after decades of abandonment. Too many pages had been turned much too fast for her keep up, and she was, in a word, drowning.
She had some idea of how difficult it was going to be to single-handedly run a florist shop. Even a small-scale one like In Bloom.
But the reality far outdid her presumptions.
The antique brass doorbell tinkled at four-thirty pm as she was out the back cleaning her preparation room. Her feet ached, her legs were heavy and her eyes were smarting with exhaustion.
The excitement she had felt at the beginning of the week had slowly dissipated leaving her flat.
Ellie was fantasising about the time when she could go home, put her feet up and have a big cup of camomile tea.
She closed her eyes for a second, smoothed down her apron, then headed out the front.
Waiting in the centre of the room was Sam.
The mass of confusion she had felt Sunday afternoon when he gave her a very cold shoulder came rushing back, intermingling with all the highs and lows of her first week in business.
But, beneath all that, she was still struck by how gorgeous this man was as he stood in her store.
Ellie drew her shoulders back, despite the weariness she was feeling after the long week, and put on her happy mask, not wanting to show him how much his coldness had affected her.
He smiled, though it was a little tense, apologetic. ‘Hi, Ellie.’
‘Hi, Sam. How are you?’
‘Good. I’m good. Um … I just thought I’d drop in and see how you were going?’
Her forehead furrowed, each line a representation of her inability to understand what was going on right now. Sunday, he couldn’t get her to leave his property quick enough. And now he was here asking how she was going. ‘Okay. I’m doing okay.’
He frowned, came a couple of steps closer. ‘You look tired.’
She blew out a long breath and quickly swiped the stray hairs from her face. ‘I am. A little. It’s been a big week.’ Emotion surged to the surface—all the stress the week had offered, trying to do her best, trying to achieve this dream that was so very difficult to achieve. But she wasn’t going to admit that to Sam.
‘What’s the matter?’
She shook her head, blinked rapidly, bemused when her eyes stung with the threat of tears. ‘I’m fine. Really.’
His frown grew deeper. His eyes flitted around the room, landing on the chair behind the counter. ‘Sit down,’ he said, gesturing towards the chair. ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’
Too fatigued to even think by this stage, she did as he bid, sighing as she slid onto the timber stool. Within minutes, the bell tinkled again as Sam opened it with his backside, a beverage in each hand and a paper bag between his teeth.
She could get up and help him, but she quite liked this stool and, besides, he was hand
ling himself okay. There were worse things than watching his jeaned, perfect arse pushing against her glass front door.
He placed the cups on the counter, then the bag.
‘There’s another chair in the back room,’ she said.
He grabbed it, sat it beside her and took a seat.
Ellie sipped from the cup and milky bitterness filled her mouth. It took all her control not to spurt it out, instead she swallowed it, her nose crinkling at the taste.
‘That’s mine, obviously,’ Sam said with a laugh. He pushed her cup towards her. ‘Green tea with a splash of cold water so it doesn’t burn your tongue.’
‘Thank you.’ He must have asked Amy what her usual order was.
‘No worries.’ He ripped open the paper bag revealing two cupcakes with a swirl of buttercream on top drizzled with oozy caramel and shaved chocolate shards.
Ellie’s stomach panged looking at them. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was. ‘Oh, god, thank you.’
Sam chuckled, then waited for her to take a bite and swallow her first mouthful. ‘A little better?’
She nodded, biting into the cupcake again. ‘A little.’
‘So tell me what’s happening?’
The question brought everything rushing back—how difficult the week had been, how she could barely keep up. ‘This has been much harder than I could have ever imagined.’
A line appeared between his eyebrows. ‘You’ve singlehandedly taken on a lot. But, you’ve got to expect the first few weeks to be tough.’
‘I’ve been running florists all my adult life. Nothing could have prepared me for what this week threw at me. So many more orders than I anticipated. Don’t get me wrong, that is exactly what I wanted. It shows the town is really getting behind me. But the stupid computer system glitched sending through orders in bursts, not to mention late. I had to get repairmen out here three times.’
‘That’s not a good start.’
‘No. It’s not. But, despite all that, the customers have been so understanding and really amazing. They all stop and chat with me, which makes it all worthwhile.’
The Sweetest Secret Page 4
