Chapter 1 — The Disheveled Delivery

Flora

The soft jingle of the bell above the door announced a new arrival, pulling Flora Hemsworth’s attention from the delicate spray of baby’s breath she was weaving into a bridal bouquet. Her hands hovered mid-air, pruning shears poised between precise cuts, as she inhaled the soothing blend of roses and eucalyptus that defined Bloom Vine. Mrs. Cartwright, her elderly neighbor, would arrive soon for her usual bundle of daisies. But instead of the familiar shuffle of orthopedic shoes, the hurried slap of sneakers across polished wood floors snapped her upright.

A tall, lanky man stumbled into view, clutching what could only be described as a botanical disaster. The bouquet—or what might once have been one—was a jumbled mess of crushed petals and crooked stems. A sunflower, bent at an almost comical angle, drooped like it had given up entirely. Dirt streaked the wrapping paper, and rogue leaves clung to the man’s hoodie.

“Uh… hi,” he said, voice teetering between sheepishness and amusement. He raked a hand through his disheveled dark brown hair, dislodging a petal that fluttered to the floor. His blue eyes, sparkling with mischief, scanned the shop before landing on Flora. “So, uh, this isn’t exactly how it started.”

Flora’s pale green eyes narrowed as she glanced from the bouquet to its apparent executioner. “Started?” she echoed, her tone even but edged with disbelief.

“Yeah.” He winced. “It was pristine when I left Floral Horizons.” The name landed like an unwelcome guest, and he seemed to realize it, grimacing. “But then… there was this dog. Big, fluffy, overly enthusiastic. It barreled out of nowhere, and I swerved to avoid it, ran into a bike rack, and, well… gravity did the rest.” He gestured vaguely to the dirt smeared across his jeans. “I didn’t fare much better.”

Flora pressed her lips into a thin line. Of course, it was Floral Horizons. Brynn Chambers’ clinical, corporate floral chain had been a thorn in Bloom Vine’s side since it opened last month. And now, even their failures were finding their way into her shop.

“You’re Rowan,” she stated, recalling the courier whose name had floated through town gossip like dandelion fluff. The storyteller. The charmer. The chaos in sneakers.

“That’s me,” Rowan replied, offering a crooked grin. “And you must be Flora—queen of flowers and ruler of this delightful kingdom.” He gestured to the shop’s rustic wooden shelves, overflowing with vases that spilled cascades of color. “Lovely place you’ve got here. Smells like… serenity. And maybe lavender?”

“It’s eucalyptus,” she corrected, her voice clipped as she set the pruning shears aside. Crossing her arms, she stepped toward him. “And what, exactly, are you doing in my shop with that catastrophe?”

Rowan glanced down at the bouquet as if noticing it for the first time. “Right. Well, I was hoping you might—” he hesitated, the bravado in his tone faltering for a heartbeat. “—fix it?”

Flora blinked at him. Fix it? This mangled wreck? Every instinct screamed at her to send him packing—to tell him to take his mess back to Brynn’s fluorescent kingdom of perfection. But the undeniable pull of her professionalism, coupled with a strange pity for the beleaguered sunflower, stayed her tongue.

She sighed, extended her hands, and said, “I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t promise miracles.”

Rowan’s face lit up as he handed over the bouquet, his movements careful, like passing off a wounded animal. “Hey, I’ll take a chance over leaving behind a floral massacre.”

Flora bit back a retort and moved to her workspace. Her fingers instinctively sorted the salvageable blooms, carefully trimming stems and discarding mangled petals. Rowan perched on a nearby stool without invitation, his presence filling the quiet shop with a restless energy that set her teeth on edge. Too close. Too loud. Too… messy.

“So,” Rowan began, plucking a stray leaf off the counter, “do you name your bouquets? Like, would this one be called ‘The Sunflower’s Last Stand’ or something?”

Flora’s lips twitched despite herself, but she refused to look at him. “I prefer to let the flowers speak for themselves.”

“Interesting approach,” he said, leaning forward. “Though I’d argue these flowers are screaming for a second chance.”

“And I’d argue you’re the reason they need one,” she countered, her words as sharp as her shears.

“Fair point.” He grinned, though a flicker of something—humility?—crossed his face. He watched her work with an intensity that made her fingers falter for the briefest moment. “You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “your shop has a handwritten vibe. Like, if Bloom Vine were a letter, it’d be sent on thick, fancy stationery. Floral Horizons? Definitely an email—perfectly formatted, but no soul.”

Her hands paused mid-cut, and she cast him a sidelong glance. His smirk was there, but beneath it was something warmer. Genuine.

“Handwritten letters still have their place,” she said finally, resuming her work. “Not everything needs to be modernized to be meaningful.”

“Well said, Floral Genius.” Rowan raised an imaginary pen in salute.

Before Flora could respond, the bell above the door chimed again. Mrs. Cartwright trudged in, her crocheted bag swinging at her side. Her sharp eyes immediately zeroed in on Rowan.

“Flora, dear, who’s this young man cluttering up your counter?” she asked, her tone as dry as the daisies she’d once tried to preserve with hairspray.

“I’m Rowan,” he said, rising with a theatrical bow. “Professional courier, amateur conversationalist, and destroyer of flowers.”

Mrs. Cartwright gave an unimpressed harrumph but turned back to Flora. “I’ll have my daisies, if you’re not too busy entertaining his nonsense.”

Suppressing a smile, Flora plucked a bundle from a nearby vase and wrapped them with practiced care. As she handed them over, she felt Rowan’s gaze linger—curious, searching. A weight she couldn’t quite ignore.

“Well,” Rowan said as Mrs. Cartwright shuffled out, “I guess that’s my cue to leave you in peace. Thanks for the rescue mission, Flora. I owe you one.”

“You owe me several,” she corrected, holding out the repaired bouquet.

Rowan chuckled, his blue eyes sparkling. “I’ll add it to my tab. Until next time, Floral Wizard.” With another imaginary hat-tip, he strolled out, leaving a tiny trail of crushed petals in his wake.

As the door swung shut, Flora exhaled slowly. Her fingers brushed the counter, grounding herself in its cool, familiar surface. She glanced at the bouquet, now carefully arranged and glowing with the unmistakable touch of her craft. The scent of eucalyptus lingered, intertwining with the memory of Rowan's crooked grin.

Rowan Lake was a disruption she hadn’t asked for: unpredictable, chaotic, and utterly infuriating. Yet, as sunlight filtered through the ivy-framed windows, Flora found herself wondering—for the briefest moment—what it might be like to let a little chaos in.