Chapter 1

Daisy

The air in the shop is thick with the scent of damp earth, sharp greenery, and the almost-too-sweet perfume of the ‘Stargazer’ lilies that are threatening to open. It’s a scent I’ve breathed in for eight years. It’s the smell of a life on pause.

My fingers, stained with soil, gently mist the leaves of a Phalaenopsis orchid. She’s a fussy-looking thing with white petals and a deep magenta throat, and she’s been refusing to bloom for weeks. I get it. I’m a late bloomer myself. Or, more accurately, a non-bloomer.

My "Fontaine's Foliage" dream shop account is sitting at a pathetic $2,450.78.

I'm so lost in a mental calculation of how many holiday centerpieces I’d have to sell to afford a single month’s lease that I don't hear the door.

The bell over the shop door doesn't tinkle; it slams against the glass, a chaotic jingle that can only mean one person.

"Daisy! Daisy, don't kill me. I'm begging you. Literally on my knees. Do not be mad."

Camellia, my best friend and the shop's owner, bursts through the curtain of hanging ferns, her face a mask of beautiful panic. She’s all sharp angles, bright-red lipstick, and a leopard-print coat that smells like an expensive emergency.

I pull the No. 2 pencil from the heavy mass of my coily hair, and the whole storm-cloud of it tumbles down onto my shoulders. "What did you do, Cam?"

"Me? Nothing! It’s my mother. She’s a tyrant. A tiny, matchmaking tyrant." Camellia starts pacing, her boots clicking on the concrete floor. She stops, points a finger at me, and narrows her eyes. "It’s criminal, by the way. How you do that."

I blink, the misting bottle still in my hand. "Do what?"

"That! Look at you." Her gaze sweeps over me, from my soil-smudged cheek to my worn-out jeans. "You’re covered in dirt, your hair is doing its glorious 'I-am-a-storm-cloud' thing, and you still look like... that. Like you just stepped out of some magazine for ethereal garden goddesses. You’re stunning."

"Stunning is a strong word, Cam. I'm wearing a sweater from 2012 and I smell like fertilizer."

"Don't even." She waves her hand, dismissing my entire argument. "You have those big, warm 'trust me' eyes and that stupid, perfect beauty mole right on your cheek." She taps her own face. "And you have... like, presence. You're tall. Those legs. Even in those god-awful work boots. You're intimidatingly beautiful while also being a human golden retriever. It's weird. Which is why you have to do this for me."

I set the mister down. "Which is why I have to do what, Camellia?"

She winces. "My mom set me up on a blind date. This afternoon. At Le Chasseur."

Le Chasseur. The name lands like a lead weight. That place isn't just expensive; it's old money expensive. It's 'we-don't-print-prices-on-the-menu' expensive.

"And... your boyfriend. The street performer."

"He has a gig!" she whispers, like it's a state secret. "His most important one! I can't not go. But I can't not go on the date, either. My mother will murder me and then dance on my grave. She thinks this guy is 'prime marriage material.' He's probably some boring finance bro who talks about his portfolio."

I cross my arms. "So, you want me to... what? Go in your place? On a date?" My stomach twists. I haven't been on a date since... Well, let's just say my orchids get more attention.

"God, no!" She looks horrified. "I want you to go, meet him, and turn him down for me. Politely. You're so good at being polite. You have that soft, melodic voice. You'll make it sound like a compliment. Just tell him I'm... I'm secretly seeing someone. A down-trodden street performer. That'll scare off a finance bro, right?"

"Cam, I can't." I gesture around the shop. "I have to close up, and this orchid is on the verge of..."

"Giving up? Daisy, please." She grabs my hands, her perfectly manicured nails pressing into my skin. My hands. I look down at them—calloused, dirt under the nails, a fresh scratch on my knuckle. They're the hands of a worker, not a woman who goes to Le Chasseur. I rub my thumb over the familiar hard ridge on my palm.

"I'll owe you," she says, her voice dropping into the register she saves for true desperation. "I'll give you every Saturday off until Christmas. You can... work on your business plan!"

She knows my weak spot.

A sigh so deep it rustles the ferns escapes me. "Fine. Fine. I'll go."

"Yes! You are a literal angel!"

"I am a literal sucker. I'm going, I'm telling him 'no thanks,' and I'm leaving. I'm not even changing."

"Oh, no, you're not." Before I can protest, she's yanking me toward the back room. "You're at least wearing my spare coat and some lipstick. You're rejecting him, not repulsing him."

An hour later, I'm standing in the lobby of Le Chasseur.

The spare coat is cashmere, and it's swallowing me. It's the most expensive thing I've ever worn, and I'm terrified I'm going to get potting soil on it. Camellia's "nude" lipstick feels like a mask.

This is a mistake.

The air here doesn't smell like earth. It smells like lemon polish, old money, and the faint, savory scent of food I can't afford. A couple sweeps past me, the woman in a dress that glitters like a diamond and the man in a suit so well-cut it probably cost more than my 'dream shop' account.

My 'nice' jeans and the chunky knit sweater I'm wearing under the coat suddenly feel like a beggar's costume.

The maître d', a man who looks like he was born in a tuxedo, eyes me with a polite disdain that makes me want to shrink.

"I... I have a reservation," I stammer, my voice not at all soft or melodic. "For Camellia. At five?"

His gaze flicks to his screen. "Ah, yes. The Donovan reservation. Your party is not yet here. Right this way."

Donovan. So, the finance bro has a name.

He leads me through a sea of quiet, impressive tables, all white linen and clinking crystal. The other diners are a low, moneyed hum. I'm a screeching record scratch. He seats me at a small table for two in a quiet alcove.

"Thank you," I murmur, but he's already gone.

I slide into the plush velvet chair, my heart doing a nervous, thumping thing against my ribs. Okay. Deep breaths. I just have to wait for Mr. Donovan, deliver my polite 'no,' and I can be home in twenty minutes, back with my orchid.

I sit. I check my watch. 5:00 PM.

5:10 PM. I re-read the wine list, just for something to do, my brain short-circuiting at the prices.

5:15 PM. I check my reflection on the back of a spoon. The lipstick is still on. My hair is still a cloud. My eyes are still wide with a mild, simmering panic.

5:20 PM. He's late. Maybe he's not coming. Maybe I can just... leave.

Yes. That's a great idea. I'm leaving.

I grab my purse and am halfway out of the chair when a shadow falls over the table.

I stop, my phone clutched in my hand. I pull it to my chest and text Camellia, not even looking up at the man who has presumably, finally, arrived.

At restaurant.