A Real Sweetheart Deal

Chapter 1

Emma

The sweet scent of freesias mingles with fresh-cut roses as I arrange Mr. Peterson's yearly early Valentine's bouquet. His weathered hands rest on the counter while he watches me work.

"Red roses again this year?" I tease as I select a particularly vibrant bloom.

"Sixty-three years, and Margaret still lights up like it's our first Valentine's Day." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Your grandmother used to say the same thing."

The mention of Gran brings warmth to my chest. "She always knew exactly which flowers spoke to each person's heart."

"That she did." He leans in, conspiratorial. "Remember when she'd let you arrange the baby's breath?"

I laugh, threading stems through my fingers. "I was terrible! But she'd display them right up front anyway."

The sunlight streaming through the shop windows catches the spray bottle's mist, creating tiny rainbows. Just like the ones Gran would point out to me on summer mornings when we'd water the outdoor displays together.

"She taught me that every flower tells a story," I say, positioning a spray of white freesias among the roses. "These freesias? They mean innocence and friendship. Perfect for a love that's stayed pure for sixty-three years."

Mr. Peterson dabs at his eyes. "Your grandmother would be proud, Emma. You've kept her spirit alive in here."

I look around with a fond smile. Some days I swear I can smell her gardenia perfume mixing with the fresh blooms.

"I learned from the best." I wrap the bouquet in cream paper, the way she showed me; three precise folds, tucked just so. "Margaret's going to love these."

The bell above the door chimes as Mrs. Castiel walks in, bringing a gust of February air.

"Emma! Just the person I needed to see."

I take my hair out of its loose pony tail and redo it, trying to tuck away the fallen blonde pieces that tickle my face.

Mrs. Castiel wrings her hands, her silver bangles clinking. "Have you heard about the new development? They're eyeing this whole block."

My fingers freeze on the ribbon I'm curling. I was ready for the basic gossip of who was sleeping with who, or what her husband had done now.

"What?"

"My nephew works in city planning. Says they want to build one of those mixed-use complexes. Retail on bottom, condos up top. Or was it a casino?" She stops for a moment trying to think, but Emma is still stuck on the first part.

"They want to what?"

"Well, honey, I just can't remember. There's so much new development going on, I can't recall the specifics."

The price sticker on the roses catches my eye. $49.99 for a dozen. Last year it was thirty-five. The month's bills sit in my back office, a stack of red numbers I've been avoiding.

"But this is a historic district," I say, though the tremor in my voice betrays my uncertainty.

The bell chimes again and Helene bustles in, her dark curls dusted with snow. "Emma, we need to coordinate the Valentine's wine and flower packages. I've got three cases of that rosé you—" She stops, reading the room. "What's wrong?"

"Tell her what you just told me," I say to Mrs. Castiel.

As Helene listens, her hand finds mine across the counter.

"We'll figure something out," Helene says. "The 'Blooms and Booze' promos are doing well."

But we both know it's not enough. The chain stores down the street sell roses for half what I charge. Their baby's breath doesn't come with stories about little girls learning to arrange flowers, though.

"It might just be rumors," Mrs. Castiel says, patting my arm. "You know how people talk. Remember when everyone said they were turning the library into a parking garage?"

"Yeah," I say, forcing a smile. "Just rumors."

But as Mrs. Castiel leaves, the stack of unpaid bills seems to grow heavier. The lease renewal sits unsigned in my drawer, the proposed rent increase making my stomach churn.

"Don't let it get to you," Helene squeezes my shoulder, her brown eyes growing serious. "I'll do some digging and be back at closing. Those development rumors pop up every few years."

After she leaves, I busy myself with the day's orders. I keep telling myself that no developer would target this place. We're small potatoes compared to the waterfront properties they usually chase.

Sarah Martinez comes in for her weekly arrangement, and we chat about her son's college acceptance. Old Mr. Wilson picks up his usual daisy bouquet for his wife's grave. Each customer carries a piece of Gran's legacy with them.

"Remember, little bee," Gran's voice echoes in my memory as I prepare for my next appointment. "These flowers aren't just stems and petals, they're stories waiting to bloom."

The bride-to-be, Jessica, arrives right on schedule. "I want something unique," she says, "but Mom insists on traditional."

"Let's create both." I pull out my digital sketch pad. "See how these garden roses cascade? They're traditional, but we'll mix in some unexpected eucalyptus and ranunculus. Your mom gets her classics, you get your statement piece."

Jessica's eyes light up as I explain each flower's meaning, just like Gran taught me. By the time she leaves, she's hugging me, tears in her eyes.

The shop bell chimes at closing time. Helene bursts in, cheeks flushed from the cold.

"So I did some asking around," she says, perching on my counter. "The developer? It's Nathan Steele."

"Should I know that name?"

"He's this hotshot who's been buying up properties all over the state. Turns them into luxurious places for the rich."

I straighten a display of tulips. "Well, he can't force anyone to sell, right?"

"Of course not." Helene helps me clean up. "Besides, who'd want this tiny old shop? No offense."

"None taken." But my stomach knots as I remember Gran's words about legacy and community. "It's not about money anyway. I'd never sell, this place is priceless to me."

"Exactly." Helene nods firmly. "So stop worrying."

Yet there's an unsettling quality about that name - Nathan Steele - that makes me shiver, and it's not from the February cold. I can't shake my curiosity about this man that could possibly be trying to buy me out. No man with a soul would do that. Not this place.

But businessmen don't have souls.

I may need to have to do some digging myself.