Chapter 2 — An Uneven Collision

Arabella

The delivery cart wobbled precariously as Arabella maneuvered it through the gilded lobby of the Astoria Grand Hotel, her hands gripping its handles tightly. The arrangement she’d crafted—a cascading display of blush roses, white orchids, and sprigs of eucalyptus—towered more than three feet high, its delicate beauty a fragile counterpoint to the opulent surroundings. The cart jolted slightly with every uneven patch of marble, sending her heart into her throat with each sway. Around her, the hotel thrummed with controlled chaos: bellhops darted between guests, their polished shoes squeaking faintly, while the low hum of conversation echoed beneath the vaulted ceilings. Crystal chandeliers refracted golden light onto the marble floors, their glow giving the space an almost otherworldly elegance.

Arabella’s scarf fluttered against her cheek as an air vent caught it, the floral-patterned silk brushing her skin like a reassuring whisper. She tucked it back into place with one hand, glancing around at the gleaming grandeur surrounding her. For a moment, the sheer scale of the luxury made her stomach twist. The scent of freshly polished wood and citrusy air freshener clashed with the soft floral aroma of her arrangement, creating a dissonance that mirrored her unease. Every corner of the lobby screamed exclusivity, from the intricately carved crown moldings to the gilded edges of the concierge desk. It was beautiful, yes, but it also felt cold—far removed from the vibrant, welcoming charm of Romano’s Blossoms.

She tightened her grip on the cart. If only her shop had even a fraction of the resources a place like this did. The thought made her chest tighten. Rent increases, mounting bills, and the unrelenting tide of gentrification all loomed over her like storm clouds. This arrangement might keep the lights on for a week or two, but the question of what came after gnawed at her. She shook her head, forcing the thoughts away. Right now, she needed to focus on getting the flowers to the bridal suite in one piece.

“Excuse me, miss—”

Arabella barely glanced at the concierge gesturing toward the far right of the lobby. “Wedding suite,” she murmured, her focus fixed on the cart. She’d spent all morning painstakingly adjusting every petal and sprig to meet the bridal party’s exacting, last-minute demands. There was no room for error—or interruptions.

As she rounded a corner toward the elevators, the cart jostled over an uneven patch of flooring. The towering arrangement swayed dangerously, petals trembling in delicate protest. Arabella gasped, lunging to steady it, her fingers brushing the cool, velvety petals of a rose. But in her haste, her foot slipped on the polished marble, and she stumbled back just as—

Crash.

The collision wasn’t deafening, but it was loud enough to turn heads. Arabella’s pulse spiked as she looked up—and kept looking up—into the piercing gray eyes of a man who had clearly just borne the brunt of their encounter. He towered over her, his tailored charcoal-gray suit now marred by a dark patch of water spreading across his lapel. A single petal clung to his forearm, and a drop of water slid down his wrist before vanishing into the pristine white cuff of his shirt.

“Good God,” the man muttered, his tone clipped and precise. He stepped back, inspecting the damage with the detached thoroughness of someone assessing a spreadsheet. Arabella noted the sharp set of his jaw, the slight tension around his mouth, and the way his fingers flexed once before smoothing the already immaculate line of his suit.

“I am so, so sorry,” Arabella said, her voice tumbling over itself in a breathless rush as she grabbed a napkin from the cart and thrust it toward him. “I didn’t see you there—well, I did, but not fast enough, and—”

“Clearly,” he interrupted, taking the napkin with an air of reluctant civility. He dabbed at the water on his jacket with methodical precision, his movements efficient but devoid of urgency. His voice was smooth, almost too smooth, like polished steel. Each clipped word carried an undercurrent of restrained irritation. “Though I suppose I should be grateful it’s water and not something more permanent.”

Arabella bristled at his tone, though guilt still knotted her stomach. She forced her most conciliatory smile, the kind she reserved for customers outraged by delivery delays during wedding season. “I’ll cover the cleaning bill, of course. Just send it to Romano’s Blossoms—”

“Miss,” he cut her off again, his gaze finally meeting hers. His gray eyes were intense, sharp as a scalpel, and they pinned her in place. It wasn’t their coldness that unsettled her but the lack of emotion behind them—a calculated detachment, as though he were cataloging her flaws and filing them under “inconvenient.” “Perhaps you should look where you’re going—for both our sakes.”

Her cheeks flamed as a mix of embarrassment and indignation surged through her. “Well, I am paying attention now, aren’t I? And I’m trying to fix it.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, though whether from annoyance or amusement, she couldn’t tell. He seemed to weigh the merits of continuing the argument, his sharp gaze locked on hers, but before either of them could speak again, a voice rang out across the lobby.

“Lucas Hernandez,” someone called, the name sliding through the air like oil over water.

Arabella’s head snapped toward the sound. A woman with a sleek ponytail and a press badge strung around her neck made her way toward them, notepad in hand and a predatory gleam in her eyes. Her sharp heels clicked against the marble, each step deliberate. The journalist’s gaze flicked between Lucas and Arabella, her expression sharpening with curiosity.

Lucas—so that was his name—stiffened, though the change was so subtle Arabella might have missed it if she hadn’t been watching him so closely. His already rigid posture straightened further, his jaw tightening as his eyes darted toward the approaching woman. Reflexively, and without understanding why, Arabella stepped slightly to the side, positioning herself between him and the journalist. She adjusted her scarf, a nervous habit, the fabric brushing her wrist as though lending her courage.

“Mr. Hernandez,” the journalist pressed, her voice honeyed but relentless. “A moment for an exclusive quote? And perhaps an introduction to your—”

“No comment,” Lucas said curtly, his tone dropping several degrees colder. He turned sharply on his heel, the movement so precise it seemed almost rehearsed, and strode away without a backward glance. Arabella blinked after him, her mouth slightly ajar. The journalist paused, her eyes narrowing as though assessing whether Arabella might offer a more pliable target. Arabella cleared her throat and focused on adjusting the flowers, pointedly avoiding eye contact. With a small, irritated huff, the journalist turned on her heel and began typing furiously into her phone as she walked away.

The world around her resumed its steady hum. Bellhops bustled, conversations swirled, and the glow of the chandeliers softened the space once more. Arabella exhaled shakily, her shoulders slumping as the tension of the moment ebbed. She reached down to pick up a stray orchid that had tumbled to the floor during the collision, brushing its delicate petals before carefully tucking it back into the arrangement. The flowers swayed slightly, as though admonishing her, but she straightened the cart with new determination.

The elevator dinged, its polished doors sliding open with a quiet whoosh. Arabella pushed the cart forward, willing her steps to steady as she entered the elevator and pressed the button for the wedding suite. As the elevator ascended, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirrored walls: cheeks still flushed, scarf slightly askew, and a faint shadow of doubt in her green eyes.

Her thoughts drifted back to Lucas Hernandez. His name rolled around in her mind, sharp and unfamiliar. There had been something in his gaze—an aloofness, yes, but also a faint flicker of something else, something she couldn’t quite name. Curiosity? Frustration? Whatever it was, it lingered like a stubborn petal refusing to be swept away.

“Lucas Hernandez,” she murmured, testing the name on her tongue. She shook her head, exhaling sharply. Whoever he was, his world of sharp suits and cold gazes wasn’t hers. She had flowers to deliver and a business to keep alive. Everything else—collisions, clipped words, and enigmatic gray eyes—would simply have to wait.