Sweet Spring Fling

Ethan

I’d spent most of the morning arranging the Dutch tulips just so.

Three hours of gentle stem manipulation, precise color gradation, and whispering encouragement to blooms that had traveled halfway across the world to be here.

Wild Roots wasn’t just a flower shop—it was my family legacy, my sanctuary, and today, my canvas.

The harbor light spilled through the front windows, catching on the dew-fresh petals and illuminating them like sea glass polished by the tide.

Perfect.

As perfect as the day my grandmother first showed me how to arrange them when I was seven, small fingers struggling with stems almost too thick for my grip.

I stepped back, adjusted my glasses, and surveyed my work. The imported tulips would be the cornerstone of Wild Roots’ spring collection—bold splashes of coral and butter yellow that complemented the more subtle peonies I’d arranged on the adjacent display. Those peonies had also been my morning’s labor, pale pink blooms so delicate they looked like they’d disintegrate if you sighed too heavily in their direction.

The brass bell above the door chimed as Mrs. Calloway entered, bringing with her the scent of sea salt and the latest harbor gossip.

“Morning, Ethan,” she called, unwinding her scarf. “Those Dutch beauties came in, I see.”

I nodded, allowing myself a small smile. “Just finished arranging them. They’ll be the star of the Spring Fling showcase.”

Mrs. Calloway approached, peering at the tulips with reverence. “The display is going to be spectacular this year. The Port Harbor Spring Fling Committee’s counting on you, you know.”

“No pressure,” I murmured, though secretly, I lived for this—the annual festival that transformed our sleepy coastal town into a riot of color and community pride. My grandmother had handled the Spring Fling floral showcase for decades before passing the responsibility to me. Now, in my sixth year carrying the torch, I refused to be the Bloom who let the tradition wither.

“And you’ve got competition this year.” Mrs. Calloway’s eyes twinkled with the particular delight small-town residents take in potential drama. “That new bakery, Sugar Tide. The owner signed up for several events, including the showcase. Making sugar flowers or some such nonsense.”

I forced my expression to remain neutral.

Sugar Tide.

The nautical-themed bakery that had opened three months ago. Granted, it brought a significant amount of foot traffic to surrounding businesses, mine included. My problem was with the constant scent of butter and vanilla, which meant I was always craving something sweet. There was also its proprietor—a whirlwind of energy who seemed physically incapable of using an indoor voice.

“Sugar paste isn’t exactly a traditional medium for the showcase,” I said diplomatically.

Mrs. Calloway patted my arm. “Don’t you worry. Nothing beats the real thing. Now, about my daughter’s wedding bouquet...”

We discussed wedding flowers for twenty minutes before she left with a promise to return tomorrow with Pinterest boards. I sighed in relief at the momentary quiet and returned to fine-tuning my peony arrangement. The blooms were exceptionally lush this season—full-petaled and blushing like shy debutantes. I’d sourced them from a farm upstate that practiced organic growing methods, and they’d arrived in peak condition.

“Breathe,” I whispered to a tight bud. “You’ve got time to open. No rush.”

The shop was silent except for the gentle hum of the refrigeration units and the occasional creak of the old building settling. This was my favorite part of the day—just me and the flowers, communicating in our quiet language of water and light.

Then I heard it. The scrabbling of nails on pavement outside. A deep, booming bark.

“No, no, no—”

The door of Wild Roots exploded inward with enough force to make the bell leap off its hook. A golden blur of fur and enthusiasm charged through the opening, moving with the unstoppable momentum of pure canine joy.

I lunged forward, arms outstretched as if I could somehow catch seventy pounds of dog mid-flight, but it was too late. The golden retriever hit my peony display with precision that would have been impressive if it weren’t so catastrophic. The table rocked, teetered, and went over with a crash that seemed to happen in slow motion.

Water cascaded across the hardwood floor. Glass shattered. Peonies scattered like pale pink bowling pins, their stems snapping under the weight of excited paws.

“Stop! Sit! Stay!” I shouted, using commands I vaguely remembered from a dog training show I’d once watched while sick with the flu.

The retriever responded by shaking itself vigorously, spraying water in a ten-foot radius before bounding over to lick my hand with enthusiastic apology.

Three hours of work, destroyed by a dog named after a carbohydrate.

This was Biscuit—the four-legged mascot of Sugar Tide Bakery, whose owner had apparently failed to grasp the concept of a leash.

“Biscuit! Biscuit, buddy, where did you—Oh, hell.”

And there he was, framed in the entrance to my shop like some annoyingly handsome, flour-dusted heartthrob.

Leo Torres, baker, and apparent dog-leash skeptic, stood panting in my doorway. His golden-brown curls were in disarray, his cheeks flushed from running, and there was a smear of what looked like chocolate across his forearm.

My heart did a traitorous little stutter that I blamed on adrenaline from the canine catastrophe.

“Your dog,” I said with forced calm, “just committed floral homicide.”

Leo’s amber-brown eyes—the precise color of cinnamon sugar, my brain unhelpfully supplied—widened as he took in the carnage. “Oh, my god. Biscuit, no!” He rushed forward, grabbing the dog’s collar. “I am so, so sorry. The delivery guy left the bakery door open, and he shot out like a furry missile.”

Biscuit, clearly unaware of the gravity of his crimes, wagged his tail with enough force to endanger a small vase of daisies on a nearby shelf. I quickly moved it out of reach.

“Those were Sarah Bernhardt peonies,” I said, knowing even as the words left my mouth that this meant nothing to him. “Imported. For the Spring Fling showcase.”

Leo winced, running a hand through his already chaotic hair. “I’ll pay for them. Whatever they cost, seriously. And I’ll help clean up. Biscuit, sit. Actually sit, you pastry-stealing menace.”

To my surprise, the dog immediately planted his rear end on the floor, though his tail continued to sweep across the wet wood.

I sighed and adjusted my glasses. “I need to get this water up before it damages the floors.”

“Let me help,” Leo insisted, already moving toward the back of the shop. “Mop? Towels? Industrial-strength flower resurrection machines?”

Despite myself, a tiny smile threatened at the corner of my mouth. I bit my lip to stifle it.

“Storage closet by the register. Mop and bucket. And no, sadly, botanical necromancy isn’t among my skills.”

While Leo went for cleaning supplies, I kneeled to assess the damage. Most of the peonies were beyond saving—stems snapped, petals crushed. I gathered the few survivors and placed them gently in a spare bucket of water.

“Peonies symbolize shame and anger in some cultures,” I murmured, a plant fact that surfaced as I tried to calm my racing thoughts. “Also, prosperity and honor in others.”

Leo returned with the mop and a stack of towels. “So they’re sending mixed messages? Kinda like I’m furious but also, congrats on that promotion?”

I glanced up, surprised he’d heard me. Most people tuned out my botanical trivia.

“More like anger and resentment at the moment,” I replied, reaching for a towel.

Leo’s smile faltered. “Message received, Bloom.”

We worked in silence for a few minutes, him mopping while I collected broken glass and salvaged what flowers I could. Biscuit, sensing the tension, had tucked himself under a display table, only his nose and remorseful eyes visible.

“I wasn’t directing that at you,” I said, feeling guilty. “It’s just... I recite plant facts when I’m stressed. Like some people count to ten.”

Leo paused mid-mop. “Seriously? So it’s like... botanical meditation?”

I shrugged. “My grandma taught me. She said every flower has a story, and sometimes telling their stories helps you forget your own problems.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Leo said, resuming his mopping with renewed vigor. “I do something similar with baking trivia. Did you know the world’s largest cinnamon roll was over nine thousand pounds?”

That couldn’t possibly be true.

Despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitched upward. “That seems excessive.”

“Exactly what someone who’s never experienced the joy of a proper cinnamon roll would say,” Leo countered, but his tone was light.

As we finished cleaning, Leo insisted on helping me salvage what remained of my displays. He reached for a fallen tulip at the same moment I did, our fingers brushing against each other. An electric jolt of awareness shot up my arm, and I quickly adjusted my glasses, hoping he hadn’t noticed how I froze at the contact.

But when I glanced up, Leo was staring at our nearly touching hands with an odd expression—his perpetual smile replaced by something more considering.

“You’ve got, uh, very steady hands,” he said, clearing his throat and withdrawing. “Must be good for all the... flower arranging... stuff.”

“Years of practice,” I managed, focusing on rescuing a bedraggled tulip that was definitely beyond saving.

When the floor was dry and the wreckage contained, Leo whistled for Biscuit, who slunk out from his hiding place with his tail between his legs.

“Again, I’m really sorry about the destruction,” Leo said, patting his leg, a signal to his canine companion that it was time to go. Biscuit roused himself from his spot and ambled toward his owner. “Send me the bill for the flowers. And maybe the cleaning. And possibly therapy for flower-related trauma.”

“It’s fine,” I said, though it wasn’t. Not completely. But something about the genuine remorse in his eyes made it hard to maintain my irritation.

Leo paused at the door, then turned back, a familiar gleam returning to his eyes. “Hey, you know what might be fun—beyond paying for damages.”

I raised an eyebrow, wary of his sudden enthusiasm.

“The Port Harbor Spring Fling,” he continued. “We’re both competing, right? So how about this: best bouquet versus best bake at the Fling. Loser buys lobstah rolls.” He exaggerated the local accent on the last words, mimicking the harbor fishermen.

“You want to turn floral destruction into a competition?” I asked.

“I’m a stress baker. Competition is my love language.” Leo grinned, that megawatt smile that probably convinced little old ladies to buy extra scones. “Unless you’re scared of a little... competition?”

I should have said no.

Should have pointed out that I had a floral showcase to prepare and replacement peonies to source.

Should have remembered that I avoided anything involving public spectacle or unnecessary social interaction.

Instead, I heard myself say, “Fine. But when you lose, I want the lobster roll from Captain’s Wharf, not the tourist trap on the pier.”

Leo’s smile widened, reaching his cinnamon-sugar eyes. “Deal, Bloom. May the best man win.” He turned to go, then paused again. “And I really am sorry about the flowers. They were beautiful.”

After he left, the bell now rehung and tinkling as the door closed, I surveyed my shop—the rescue bucket of bedraggled peonies, the rearranged tulips, the lingering scent of dog and sea salt and, somehow, vanilla.

“This is a terrible idea,” I told the nearest tulip, which had survived the canine onslaught unscathed. “Competitions lead to public attention and small talk and—”

And Leo Torres, who’d talked me into a challenge I hadn’t seen coming, much like his golden retriever of mass destruction.

I sighed and reached for my order pad. I needed to call my supplier about emergency peonies, and I wasn’t going to think about the way my skin had tingled when Leo’s fingers brushed against mine.

Absolutely not.

* * *

The Spring Fling was still two weeks away, but Port Harbor was already transforming. Blue and white banners hung from lampposts, window displays featured nautical themes or spring flowers, and the lighthouse—visible from everywhere in town—had been decorated with streamers that fluttered like tethered rainbows against the coastal sky.

My grandmother found me in Wild Roots’ back greenhouse the next morning, fussing over replacement peonies that had arrived by overnight courier.

“You look like you’ve been up since dawn.” She handed me a cup of coffee with a splash of honey—the way she’d made it since I was sixteen. At seventy-three, Louise Bloom moved more slowly than she once had, but her eyes missed nothing.

“The new peonies needed immediate attention,” I murmured, gently misting the blooms. “And I’m rethinking my entire Spring Fling design.”

“Does this have anything to do with Biscuit’s rampage?” She settled onto the wooden stool beside my workbench. “Mrs. Calloway called me last night. Said you had—and I quote—a quite the handsome visitor.”

I nearly dropped the spray bottle. “This town needs a hobby that isn’t gossip.”

“Gossip is the hobby, dear.” She leaned forward to examine a peony. “So. Leo Torres. He’s taking part in the showcase as well, isn’t he?”

“With sugar flowers.” I couldn’t keep the dismissive note from my voice. “And now we have some ridiculous competition going where the loser buys lobster rolls.”

Grandma’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “How terrible for you. Having a meal with an attractive young man who clearly has good taste in dogs, if not leash management.”

“That’s not—”

“When I was courting your grandfather,” she continued, ignoring my protest, “we had a similar competition. Who could grow the better tomatoes.”

“This isn’t courting,” I said firmly. “It’s... professional rivalry.”

“I sabotaged his tomatoes with too much fertilizer,” she added with a mischievous glint. “They grew enormous but tasted terrible. He never figured it out.”

“Grandma!”

“What? He made me tomato salad for fifty years after that. I regret nothing.” She reached over to adjust the angle of a particularly magnificent bloom. “Sometimes a little friendly competition is exactly what’s needed to make someone see you differently.”

“I don’t need Leo Torres, or anyone else, to see me differently.” Even to my ears, I sounded defensive. “I need to win the showcase and maintain Wild Roots’ reputation.”

“Of course, dear.” She patted my hand. “By the way, I’m delivering my marigold cookies to Sugar Tide this afternoon. Would you like me to size up the competition?”

I hesitated, torn between curiosity and pride.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She rose with a satisfied smile. “You really should try one of his cinnamon rolls. They’re quite... stimulating.”

“Please stop.” I focused intently on a bloom that needed absolutely no attention.

“And Ethan? Maybe wear something besides that faded flannel when you next see him. The nice blue one brings out your eyes.”

With that final mortifying piece of advice, she left me alone with my peonies and my increasingly traitorous thoughts.

Because despite my protests and despite myself, I couldn’t stop thinking about amber-brown eyes, flour-dusted curls, and the way Leo Torres said my last name like it was the punchline to a joke only we understood.

“Focus,” I told myself, turning back to the flowers that needed me—reliable, predictable, and incapable of upending my carefully tended life with a single touch.