Chapter 1

Calandra

Deadlines smell like peonies and panic. At least they do today.

It’s barely nine-thirty and already my studio smells like high-end stress: espresso, expensive candles, and the unmistakable musk of fresh anxiety. My kitten heels click against the polished concrete floor as I pace, cell wedged between shoulder and cheek, a pen tucked behind my ear, and three open client folders fanned out across my desk like an altar to overcommitment.

“Tabitha, I need the mother of the bride confirmed by noon or she’s getting placed next to the bartender. Yes, I’m serious. No, I don’t care if she’s at Pilates.”

I end the call, not waiting for a goodbye, and slap my phone onto the desk. It buzzes the second it touches down.

Incoming Call: Eden Rose Florals

I feel a sharp flutter in my chest. Not the good kind. I answer with my “everything’s fine” voice. “Eden, hi. Please tell me my blush dahlias are en route and not a figment of your imagination.”

The silence on the other end tells me everything before she does.

“Calandra, babe… I am so sorry. We’ve had a leak. A literal one. Our cooler’s dead, the whole stock is compromised, and I can’t fulfill the Whitmore order.”

My spine stiffens. “Eden. Eden, no.”

“I’m already refunding your deposit, don’t worry—”

“I’m not worried about the deposit,” I snap, voice low and tight. “I’m worried about the fact that my most high-profile wedding of the year—possibly my career—is in seventy-two hours, and I no longer have a florist.”

Eden mutters something about insurance and mold spores. I’m not listening. I’m already flipping through my vendor Rolodex, a stained, dog-eared binder I’ve used since my first wedding nine years ago. My fingers fly past tabs labeled “trusted,” “emergency,” and “desperate times.” Every name I know is either unavailable or tragically average. The kind of florists who think baby’s breath is charming or that silk arrangements count as couture.

This cannot be happening. Not today.  I hang up without a goodbye—again—and grab my bag. “Tasha!” I yell toward the back room, where my assistant is probably stress-eating a protein bar while color-coding our ceremony scripts.

Her head pops out, lipstick flawless, earrings the size of espresso saucers. “Tell me that was a call about a last-minute run of orchids and not your 'I’m about to ruin someone’s life' tone.”

“It’s the latter.”

She grabs her laptop. “Shit. Where are we going?”

“Hale & Bloom.”

Tasha freezes. “Oh gross. The jungle thrift store? Cal, no. That place is a haunted greenhouse with commitment issues.”

“Every backup is booked,” I hiss, throwing on my blazer. “And they came highly recommended by the Ralston event. You remember? That rooftop monstrosity with the ice luge shaped like a champagne bottle?”

Tasha shudders. “Ugh, yes. That wedding gave me shin splints and trust issues.”

“Exactly. Their florals were flawless. Like art installation meets orgasm.”

She blinks. “Okay, say less. That’s wayyy too much information right now.”

We’re in my car in under three minutes, Atlanta traffic be damned. I fly through side streets and alleys, bypassing a cupcake truck and an accidental biker parade, before finally pulling into the narrow lot in front of Hale & Bloom.

It’s not… promising. The sign is hand-painted and crooked. One of the windows is fogged up with condensation and maybe regret. A cardboard display of potted succulents sits wilting near the front door like someone abandoned them mid-therapy.

Tasha raises an eyebrow. “It’s giving… Uncle Ted’s bugout shed vibes.”

I square my shoulders. “It’s giving desperate genius. Let’s go.”

Inside, it smells like damp earth and eucalyptus and something spicy I can’t place. It’s not the usual sterile bloom-and-go operation I’m used to. This shop feels alive. Wild, even.

Arrangements hang from the ceiling in curved copper frames, petals tangled in graceful chaos. Tables are stacked with open crates of wildflowers, exotic greenery, even deep purple calla lilies so dark they look like bruises.

And then I see him. Back turned, shirt half-drenched with sweat, hunched over a table where he’s wiring something into place.

Steel-gray eyes flick up. Just once.

“Get lost.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Unless you’ve got an appointment,” he mutters, not looking up again, “you’ll need to wait. Or not. Doesn’t bother me.”

Tasha lets out a low whistle. “Oh, he’s British and rude. This’ll be fun.”

I step forward, arms crossed. “I’m Calandra Brown. CEO of Brown Sugar Affairs. I don’t wait.”

He turns this time. Slowly. He’s taller than I thought. Broad. Solid in that ex-rugby player way, with burn scars on his arms and five o’clock shadow that somehow looks curated. His shirt is rolled to the elbows, smudged with soil and sweat, and his chestnut hair is barely tied back in a half-assed bun.

“You’re the wedding planner,” he says, like it’s a diagnosis.

“I’m the best wedding planner in Atlanta.”

He doesn’t even blink. “Congrats. Still not done here.”

“Look—” I begin.

He lifts a single hand. “Blush dahlias. White garden roses. Coral peonies. You want romance and prestige, not pageant princess vibes. You’re planning the Whitmore wedding, yeah?”

I narrow my eyes. “How do you—?”

“Because only a society wedding this absurd would call me this early on a Wednesday.”

He picks up a long-stemmed bloom—some kind of rare, pink-black hybrid—and twirls it once between his fingers. “You need something unhinged but elegant. Wild, but controlled. Drama with just enough symmetry to keep the blue-bloods from fainting.”

“You think you can deliver that?”

He smirks, like I just asked if water’s wet. “What’s your budget?”

“Unlimited.”

His brow lifts. “Dangerous answer. Very dangerous.”

I arch one back. “Try me.”

He turns, gestures vaguely toward the jungle of flora around us. “I’m halfway through a dragon-winged arch. Give me until Friday.”

I glance at Tasha. She shrugs. “Well, the man knows his petals.”

I reach into my bag, grab a checkbook, and write out a deposit—twenty percent of the full budget. A challenge wrapped in cursive and contempt.

He takes it without a word.

As I turn to leave, my phone buzzes again. Probably another crisis. Or the caterer asking if gluten-free can also mean dairy-free. I don’t care.

I glance over my shoulder once more. He’s already back to work, muttering to himself as he threads vines through copper wiring. Focused. Intense. Annoyingly magnetic. And handsome to boot, goddammit.

He doesn’t look at me again. And I—God help me—I kind of hope he does.