IN BLOOM

CHAPTER FOUR

What if

Leah's pov

The shop smells like yesterday’s lilies and desperation.

The heater’s rattling again—probably begging for retirement—but I don’t have the heart to scold it. Or the funds to replace it. I pull my cardigan tighter, cradling a cup of tea like it holds answers to questions I’ve stopped asking.

“Your twelve o’clock canceled,” Mira says from behind the register. She’s nineteen, relentlessly hopeful, and still believes in things like soulmates and elopements. I envy her.

“Of course they did.” I peel a petal off a bruised rose. “Let me guess—her cousin offered to do the bouquet for free?”

“She said something about eucalyptus allergies.”

“Right.” I toss the petal in the bin. “Because eucalyptus is such a shock ingredient in weddings.”

Mira doesn’t laugh, but she gives me a sympathetic look, which is worse.

I glance at the appointment book. Blank. Again.

It wasn’t always like this. Once, I had waiting lists, Pinterest boards, brides who cried happy tears in my doorway. Then came the day I wore a white dress and stood alone.

Turns out pity doesn’t pay rent.

I sigh once again and I can feel Mira staring at me

"what is wrong you have been sighing sin ce I walked in here" she asks looking at me and I shake my head while muttering nothing and then she informs me that she is leaving which I nod to.

-------

I don’t tell anyone about the proposal.

Not my mom, not my best friend, not even the orchid on my kitchen windowsill that I talk to when things get especially bleak.

Because once I say it out loud—

Daniel Carter asked me to marry him—

it becomes something real.

And right now, it feels more like a dream I haven’t quite decided was a nightmare or not.

The shop is quiet this morning, still heavy with the scent of yesterday’s roses and damp eucalyptus. I should be opening the shutters. Arranging the display. Returning supplier calls.

But instead, I’m standing behind the counter staring into space.

No ring. No flowers. No grand declaration.

Just a question asked across a candlelit table like it was a business transaction.

And somehow... that’s what made it worse.

There were no illusions. No flirtation. No pretense of love. Just logic.

"It would be legal. Temporary. Mutually beneficial."

He’d looked so calm. Like he was asking me to invest in a startup, not a marriage.

And the worst part?

He meant it.

I run my fingers along the petals of a pale yellow tulip. Soft. Simple. Honest.

Tulips don’t ask for attention. They just bloom. Quietly. Steadily.

I used to think love should be like that.

But now I wonder if love is supposed to be louder. Messier. Undeniable.

I don’t know anymore.

All I know is that Daniel Carter unsettles me.

Not in the charming, flirty way that leaves you giggling with your friends after a date. No—he unsettles me in a way that feels like he sees too much. Like he reads the parts of me I’ve buried.

The part that still aches when someone walks past the bakery we were supposed to have our wedding cake from.

The part that still checks the mail hoping my ex-fiancé might have sent something, even if it’s just regret.

The part that’s tired of trying so hard to seem okay.

By mid-afternoon, I give up pretending to work.

Instead, I sit in the back office with my phone in my hand and Daniel’s email open again.

It’s still there. Still maddeningly brief. No follow-up. No pressure.

He gave me space.

And it’s somehow more terrifying than if he’d called.

Because now I’m the one with the power.

To say yes.

To say no.

To change my life.

What kind of woman says yes to a marriage of convenience?

A desperate one?

A broken one?

Or maybe...

a brave one?

The chime above the shop door jingles faintly, and I jump to my feet, too quickly, like I’ve been caught doing something shameful.

But it’s only a delivery boy with a mix-up from the flower market.

I sign, thank him, and lock the front door behind him.

And then, without thinking, I open a new message on my phone.

To: Daniel Carter

Subject: Re: A follow-up

One condition.

I make my own rules. I walk when I want.

Let’s talk.

I stare at the message for one long, trembling second.

Then I hit send.

And the moment I do, a storm rolls in over the city—sharp and sudden. The sky goes gray. The first drop hits the window.

Somewhere deep in my chest, something tightens.

Not fear. Not yet.

Just... anticipation.

I don’t wait for a reply.

I lock the shop early, blame it on the storm, and walk home beneath an umbrella I forgot had holes in it. The wind kicks up hard on the corner of Westlake and 3rd, and for a moment, I feel like a kite about to snap free from its string.

A tiny, pathetic laugh escapes me.

That’s what this whole situation feels like: the universe testing how far I’ll bend before I break.

By the time I reach my apartment, my coat is soaked and my boots are two shades darker. I peel everything off at the door and leave a trail of wet fabric across the entryway floor.

Only when I’m dry and in fresh clothes do I check my phone again.

One new email. From Daniel.

Subject: Understood.

Dinner tomorrow at 7.

Theo’s on Market Street. Private table. I’ll have the terms written up for discussion.

Come as yourself.

Come as yourself.

What does that even mean?

As opposed to what? The girl I used to be? The version of me who still believed in something simple and romantic and earned?

I don’t know who “myself” is anymore. But something about that last line… makes me want to try.

I spend the evening rearranging books I don’t read and pacing the small stretch between my kitchen and the window. The rain hasn’t let up. It’s a dull drumbeat in the background now, matching the rhythm of my thoughts.

I said yes to a conversation—not to the proposal.

I can still back out.

And yet, when I picture him across that table again—cool, unreadable, unapologetically focused—I don’t want to run.

I want to understand him.

Why me?

Why now?

What’s buried under all that polish and precision?

Maybe this isn't about money. Or status.

Maybe it’s about something neither of us has admitted yet.

A need.

A bruise.

A longing for something safe that looks like a transaction but hides something deeper.

Or maybe I’m romanticizing the whole thing. Again.

Still... I whisper to the orchid on my windowsill as I water it before bed:

“Tomorrow changes everything, doesn’t it?”

It doesn’t answer.

But I think we both know the truth.