Riley Vaughn lives her life in perfect control -- sharp suits, long hours, and a heart locked tight after a childhood shaped by fear and the loss of her brother. But everything shifts when she meets Sarah Hoff, the soft-spoken florist whose warmth sneaks past every defense Riley has. What begins as quiet fascination grows into something neither of them expected ... until one mistake sends them spiraling apart.
Riley tries to bury herself in work, but nothing feels right without Sarah. And Sarah, hurt but hopeful, can’t quite let go of the woman who made her feel seen. When life pushes them back together, they’re forced to confront the truth: healing takes courage, love takes trust, and sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let someone in.
Sarah Hoff was facing her greatest adversity.
The top shelf.
She stood in the aisle, arms crossed, head tilted back, staring down a glossy pink pot like she could will it to descend on its own.
It didn’t. It just sat there smugly, relishing its elevated status. She clicked her tongue in frustration.
“See, why do they do this? The heavy stuff up top? That’s just mean.”
“I agree,” came a voice behind her.
Sarah barely reacted. “You’d think they’d put the heavy stuff at the bottom, but nooo. Here we’ve got seeds, garden gloves and plastic buckets instead.”
“Mhm,” the voice said again. “Doesn't make any sense, does it?”
Sarah turned, slowly, and there she was. Tall, at least 5’11”, poised and stunning. Blonde bob, crisp blouse tucked into tailored slacks, like she’d just stepped out of a photoshoot for executive elegance. Her presence was so composed it almost felt curated.
Sarah stared for a beat. “I think you’re in the wrong place.”
The woman raised a brow. “Oh?”
“Heaven’s over by aisle six. There’s an elevator. It’ll take you straight to the top.”
The woman followed Sarah’s gaze to what looked like a service elevator. She chuckled, her voice low, warm and effortless.
“Thanks. I get lost so easily. Thought I’d grab a souvenir before I head back. Figured maybe I could lend a helping hand while I’m at it too?”
Sarah smiled, half-shy, half-smitten, and pointed. “The pink one, please. Glossy finish.”
The woman set her purse down and reached up with ease, plucking the pot like it weighed nothing.
Sarah beamed as it was handed over. “Thank you!”
“My pleasure,” the woman said, then leaned in slightly. “Now I just need to find a flower for my ... uh, apartment? Or is it a house I have in heaven? Or maybe it’s a den?”
Sarah tilted her head, pretending to consider this very seriously. “Something with a porch. I’m thinking an ocean view and palm trees. How about a bungalow?”
The woman nodded, amused. “A bungalow by the sea. Of course. Then I’ll need a flower for the windowsill.”
She turned to the tables making up rows and rows of greenery behind them, letting out a small sigh. “So many options.”
A random bloom was lifted, a soft purple peony, and she gave Sarah a sidelong glance. “Thoughts?”
Sarah studied her for a moment. “Is this for you, or a gift?”
“For me. For the ... bungalow.”
Sarah nodded, crouched to gently set her pot down, then stepped forward and, without a word, plucked the peony from the woman’s hand and returned it to its pot.
“They’re lovely, but tricky indoors,” she said, and then leaned in conspiratorially. “How confident are we with flowers?”
The woman matched her lean, eyes playful. “Not very. My last plant died of ... everything.”
Sarah laughed. “Everything, huh? I don't mind a challenge. Come.”
She led her down the aisle, scanning stems and petals with careful precision until she stopped at a delicate white flower, its three petals poised like a dancer mid-pirouette.
“This,” she said, picking one up, “is an orchid. Classic. Elegant. Surprisingly expressive if you look closely. This one’s white, but they come in wild patterns like freckles or stripes.”
The woman took it, her fingers brushing Sarah’s. “I like it.”
“Indirect light,” Sarah said. “Not full sun. Water once a week, let the roots almost dry out in between. Most people love them too much. Overwatering is basically manslaughter.”
The woman laughed. “Got it. Be aloof. Channel my inner cat owner.”
Sarah nodded, a small smile on her lips. “It’s mostly about patience, really.”
“Thank you,” the woman said. “You into flowers, or just gifted with top-floral wisdom?”
Sarah hesitated, then gave a modest little shrug.
“I’ve spent a lot of time around them. They calm me. And I guess I’ve picked up a few things along the way. If you ever want more for your celestial bungalow,” she added, “try a florist. It costs a little more, but… we really care.”
The woman tilted her head. “We?”
Sarah met her eyes and smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m one. That’s my shop down on Sophie Street, in the city.”
The woman narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “There’s a place near my work called Roses and ... something?”
“Roses & Reverie,” Sarah replied, her smile widening. “That’s the one, that’s my shop. My second home.”
The woman looked at her differently. She held the orchid a little more carefully, like it mattered more now. “Then I’ll treat this like a recommendation from someone who really knows her flowers.”
Their eyes lingered for just a beat too long, and soon they went their separate ways. But something stayed; a warmth that carried with them as they left the store in opposite directions, each glancing back just once. Both a little more curious than before.
