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“But there’s no time,” she whispers, defeated. “And I know it’s just flowers—god, I know—but it was the one thing I really cared about. The arch, the aisle runners, the bouquets…”
“It’s not just flowers,” I say gently. “It’s your flowers. And they mattered because they meant something to you. So don’t try to downplay it.”
A beat of silence. Then a sniffle. “You always know what to say.”
“That’s because I’m your maid of honor and your emotional support raccoon. I thrive in chaos.”
Behind me, Beau moves, and I glance over my shoulder. He’s watching me with that unreadable expression again. I ignore it. Focus.
“Listen,” I say, pacing now. “There has to be someone nearby who can help. Maybe not a full-service florist, but a nursery, a market, something.”
“You really think we can pull it together?”
“I know we can,” I say firmly. “I’ll find options, call around. Worst case, we’re hitting up every farmer’s market in a fifty-mile radius and DIY-ing the hell out of this wedding.”
Another pause, then the tiniest laugh. “I love you.”
“I know. Now go drink some water and pretend to be calm. I’ve got this.”
I hang up and exhale, tension creeping into my shoulders. Turning back around, I find Beau still watching me.
“What?” I ask, grabbing my laptop.
“You’re…impressive.”
His compliment is so unexpected, so earnest, that I nearly drop the laptop.
“Thanks,” I drawl. “Don’t sound too enthusiastic about it.”
“I mean it,” he says, and for once his voice lacks its usual gruffness.
I don’t have time to process what that means because I’m already opening my laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Flower emergency. I need to find someone who can handle a last-minute wedding.”
An hour later, I’m surrounded by a sea of open browser tabs, three notebooks, and my increasingly frantic scribbles. My hair’s pulled into a messy bun, pen cap between my teeth as I cross another name off my list.
“No, I understand completely,” I say into my phone, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. “Yes, three days is extremely short notice. Thank you anyway.”
I hang up and drop my head into my hands. That’s the seventh rejection in a row.
“This is impossible,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “Nobody can handle a full wedding on such short notice. Not in, and I quote, ‘Mountain resort territory during peak wedding season.’”
I pull up another search, fingers trembling slightly as I type. I stare at the screen until my vision blurs. The words swim together—local florists, delivery options, rush fees. I dial the eighth number.
“Hello? Yes, I’m calling about an emergency wedding flower situation—”
The rejection comes faster this time. Not even a pause to consider. Just a firm no. It might as well have been a hell no.
I hang up and press my palms against my eyes.
“Red.” Beau’s voice cuts through my spiral. I totally forgot he’s been hanging around, watching me fall apart.
I blink rapidly, forcing a brittle smile. “I’m fine. Just need to make a few more calls.”
Beau crosses the room in two long strides. Without a word, he gently takes the notebook from my hand, his calloused fingers brushing against mine.
“Let me.”
Before I can protest, he’s scanning through my list of potential florists, his dark eyes scanning the names I’ve already crossed out.
