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Chapter One
Libby
“You’re twenty-nine, Liberty Joy. You’re not getting any younger.”
So it’s going to be one of those days. Fantastic. I roll my eyes as I bustle around the shop, refusing to stop moving long enough for my mother to corner me. It’s bad enough that she comes here to my shop in the middle of the day to torment me about my incurable singleness where anyone can hear.
“No, mom,” I say sharply, praying she’ll drop it before someone walks in. “I’m not interested.”
“Just give him a try,” she whines, Jersey thick in her voice. It’s odd, since she’s lived in Little Rock for most of her life. Maureen Bloom has always danced to the beat of her own drums, and those drums refuse to assimilate to the southern cadence I’ve always loved.
“I don’t want to give him a try,” I insist, setting the bouquet I’m assembling down on the counter to emphasize my point with air quotes.
“Well, why the hell not?” she sputters, hands planted on her hips like she’s settling in for a fight.
“I gave the last seven—yes, seven—a try,” I repeat when she tries to interrupt. “Just for you, mom.”
“But, Libby,” she whines. “Scotty is—“
“Scotty is nothing, mom. No more.”
“Just—“
“No. More.” I say, bearing down on her, hoping she’ll understand how serious I am.
“Your life can’t just be this shop, honey,” she says, trying her epic mom-guilt that has effectively sent me on seven blind dates in the last three months. She’s desperate for a grandchild and I’m desperate for… I don’t even know.
“I just want to see you happily married with a family before I die,” she repeats for the millionth time since I was old enough to date. “Your sister is pregnant with number four and you—”
“I what, mom? All I have is this shop?” I snap, regretting my tone, but unwilling to back down again. “Nana left me this shop. It’s all I have left of her. And yes, I’d like to find someone to share my life with. I would. But you can’t keep setting me up with every son of a friend of a friend that you find out is single, Mom.”
“Libby,” she sighs, and I know my laissez faire attitude toward finding my soulmate is incomprehensible to her. My younger sister, Lily, married her high school sweetheart and had a honeymoon baby. They live two doors down from my parents, and she’s the perfect little homemaker.
Ever since my last breakup six months ago, she’s been drinking tea with mom every afternoon, conspiring to set me up with the neighborhood’s next most eligible bachelor. What both of them fail to understand is that I’m not willing to settle. I don’t want a small life.
Sure, I have a small florist shop, but Pollen in Love is the destination for wedding arrangements. I’ve made contacts throughout the country and there’s no flower I can’t procure to make sure each bride gets the florals of her dreams. I can’t do anything about the happily ever after, but I can guarantee petal perfection on the big day.
“Oh, there’s just no reasoning with you!” she wails, throwing her hands up in dramatic frustration. “I guess if you want to die shriveled up and alone, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
I look over at her, chuckling when I see her head thrown back but notice she’s watching me out of the corner of her eye, waiting for me to give in. Nope. Not this time. Weddings and children are two of my favorite things, and I haven’t been blessed with either, but I don’t see it happening with whatever suitor my mother chooses to parade in front of me this week.
“Well, you look busy,” she says finally. “I guess I’ll leave you to it.”
“I am. I have a wedding Saturday.”
“Lots of single men going to be there?” she asks, her interest piqued.
“I imagine so, but I’ll be working, not shopping for a husband, mother. Your greed for more grandbabies will just have to wait.”
“What am I going to do with you?” she asks herself, coming over and dropping a kiss on my cheek. “We’ll see you for dinner on Sunday.”
Without another word, or waiting for confirmation that I’ll show up as expected, she leaves with a wave over her shoulder as the bell above the door rings throughout the shop. Alone again, I spin slowly in place, taking in the shop I’ve loved since I was a little girl.
I’ve made a few upgrades here and there, but little has changed since I worked here in high school, learning everything about flowers from my Nana. Unlike me, she had a green thumb, cultivating many of the blooms she used in her arrangements in a greenhouse behind the shop. Sadly, my thumb is as black as night, so I converted the greenhouse into storage space when I inherited the shop nearly a decade ago.
The bell ringing again catches my attention and I turn toward the door, ready to greet the newcomer. The friendly smile drops from my face before I catch myself and quickly plaster a forced one in place.
“Hello, Liberty.” I cringe, hating the way my name sounds on his lips now. There was a time, not so long ago, that I thought he was the one. His smooth charm had me eating out of the palm of his hands, dreaming about becoming Mrs. Wyatt Dawson. That is, until it all came to a screeching halt when I learned about his real girlfriend. Miss Winnifred Collins, former Miss Georgia, soon-to-be Mrs. Arkansas.
