The Florist's Flourish
"Peony's Petals has supplied flowers for every major event in Charlotte. When a regular client starts sending himself arrangements, she discovers some blooms are meant to be kept."
Peony's Petals has been mine for twenty-five years.
Weddings, funerals, everything in between. I'm Pearl—"Peony" to my clients—fifty-six, making beautiful things from stems and dreams.
"I need an arrangement. For myself."
The man at my counter is familiar. Marcus Webb—corporate account, orders weekly for his office.
"For yourself?"
"Is that strange?"
"Usually people send flowers to others."
"Maybe I'm worth sending to." His eyes hold something new. "What would you recommend?"
He starts ordering daily.
Different arrangements, always for himself. Roses, lilies, orchids—my best work, delivered to his office every morning.
"Your staff must be confused," I say on day twelve.
"Let them be." He examines a sunflower. "I'm learning what I like."
"And what do you like?"
"Coming here." His eyes meet mine. "Watching you work."
"Marcus—"
"I know it's strange." He sets down the sunflower. "I've been ordering flowers for ten years. Never thought about who made them until recently."
"What changed?"
"I did." He moves closer. "Divorced six months ago. Realized I'd never appreciated beautiful things."
"And now?"
"Now I'm trying to learn."
The visits extend beyond orders.
He stays while I arrange, asks questions about varieties and meanings. The shop feels different with him in it.
"Why flowers?" he asks.
"Because they don't last." I trim a stem. "They teach you to appreciate what's temporary."
"Is everything temporary?"
"Some things less than others."
"What if I wanted something permanent?"
He's behind me now, close enough to feel his warmth.
"Permanent flowers don't exist."
"I wasn't talking about flowers." His hand touches my shoulder. "I was talking about us."
The kiss happens among the roses.
Petals everywhere, fragrance surrounding us while his mouth finds mine.
"This is my shop," I gasp.
"Then let me appreciate it properly."
His penthouse is minimal, ordered.
The arrangements I've made are everywhere—splashes of color in a world of gray.
"You kept them all," I notice.
"Why wouldn't I? They're beautiful." He pulls me close. "Like you."
He undresses me surrounded by my work.
Roses watching, lilies bearing witness. His hands trace my curves like he's arranging something.
"Beautiful," he breathes.
"I'm not—"
"You're the most beautiful thing in this room." He kneels before me. "And I'm including the orchids."
His mouth finds me and I grip his shoulders.
Thorough, attentive, learning what makes me bloom.
"Marcus—"
"That's it. Open for me."
When he enters me, we're both flowering.
New growth from old roots. His body moves with mine—cultivating, nurturing, bringing forth.
"So good," he groans.
"Don't stop. I'm almost—"
"There." He feels me clench. "That's it."
Afterward, among the arrangements, he holds me.
"Design something for me."
"What kind?"
"A wedding bouquet." He pulls me closer. "For you."
"Marcus, we've only—"
"I've been sending myself flowers for a month. The staff thinks I'm insane." He kisses my forehead. "I'd rather be insane with you."
The wedding bouquet is my best work.
White roses, deep purple accents, everything I've learned in twenty-five years. I carry it myself, down an aisle lined with my arrangements.
"To the woman who taught me to bloom," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who kept coming back," I counter.
We kiss while petals fall.
Some flowers are for giving.
Some are for keeping.
And some florists find that the best arrangements are the ones that grow into forever.
Rooted.
Watered.
Loved.