Chapter 1 

Jasmine 

I wake to the sound of rain, a soft, steady rhythm against my windowpane that always feels like a secret just for me. It’s still dark outside, the city’s early light a faint gray smear on the horizon, but my world is already in full bloom. The air in my tiny Brooklyn apartment is thick with the sweet, heady perfume of peonies and the sharp, clean scent of fresh-cut eucalyptus. Every surface—the small kitchen table, the cluttered bookshelves, the old piano my grandmother, Nana Jo, left me—is covered with vases and buckets of flowers, a riot of color and life. This is the hour before the world begins, when it’s just me and the quiet hum of growing things.

My hands, even in my sleep, seem to remember their purpose. They’re stained green with chlorophyll, the calluses on my palms a testament to years of snipping, arranging, and tending. I run a hand through my natural curls, a tangle of soft brown that I’ll soon gather with a silk scarf, and catch a whiff of my own scent: a mix of roses, rich soil, and the cinnamon I’d used in last night’s tea. The world, for me, is measured in these small details—the feeling of a dew-kissed leaf against my skin, the earthy fragrance of a freshly filled pot, the whisper of a bloom unfurling in the morning light.

My shop, Roots & Remedies, is both my rebellion and my sanctuary. Nana Jo used to say, “Flowers have a language all their own, Jasmine. They talk to you if you listen.” When my mom died, that loss felt like an endless winter. But Nana Jo, with her wise eyes and steady hands, showed me how to find solace in the tiny, resilient miracles of the garden. How to turn grief into growth. My ambition to expand my business isn’t just about success; it's about proving that I don't need anyone to bloom. It's my monument to their memory, a testament to my own strength. I am my own root, and my own remedy.

I carefully lift two large wicker baskets, their woven sides a familiar scratch against my arms. They’re filled with the day's bounty: deep magenta dahlias, delicate sprigs of baby's breath that look like constellations, and bundles of fragrant lavender. As I tie my hummingbirds scarf, I glance at my inner wrist, where a tattoo of lavender vines reminds me to stay grounded. I also take a moment to tuck a single, small dahlia behind my ear, a habit from Nana Jo that makes me feel ready for the day.

The city is still hushed as I start my bike ride to the farmers market. My bicycle, a vintage cruiser with a wicker basket and a worn leather seat, feels like an extension of me. The wheels hum a low song on the wet pavement, and the cool morning air kisses my brown skin, which has a golden undertone that catches the light beautifully. I pass brownstones with sleeping windows, the scent of fresh-baked bread escaping from a nearby bakery, and a coffee shop where the lights have just flickered on. The world is coming to life, and I am the pulse of it.

"Jasmine! Morning, flower!" shouts Mr. Henderson, the vegetable vendor, his voice a warm rumble. He's arranging bright heirloom tomatoes on his stand. "Came in early to get the best of your dahlias."

"Just for you, Mr. Henderson," I reply, my voice carrying the warmth of my community.

"That's our Jasmine," he chuckles. "Brightens up the whole place, doesn't she?" I hear the murmured agreements from the other vendors as I pass. They call me the "Flower Lady," a title I wear with pride. They see me not just as a florist, but as a source of joy and beauty in their lives, a living representation of the blooms I sell. My curves are soft, a tribute to a life lived with passion and good food, and they tell me my honey-brown eyes hold a kindness that is rare. They feel it, and I know it's a reflection of the love I put into my work.

I slow down, balancing my bike with a practiced grace, talking to my plants like they’re people. "Almost there, my pretties," I whisper to the dahlias. "Time to show the world your magic." I'm so lost in this peaceful routine, so engrossed in the quiet magic of the morning, when I suddenly see him.

He is a jarring, incongruous figure in my soft-focus world. He is tall, pale, and moves with the rigid, calculated stride of a man in a hurry, a man with a destination. His suit is sharply tailored, a dark, expensive thing that screams "corporate" and "out of place." He's staring intently at his phone, his face a mask of focus, completely oblivious to the world around him. The kind of man I instinctively dislike—the kind of man who would dismiss a flower as a "weed" in a concrete world.

He steps out from behind a delivery truck, and I swerve. The front wheel of my bicycle connects with his leg, a loud clatter of metal against bone. I hit the brakes, but it’s too late. The momentum of the collision sends my basket of dahlias and lavender flying. The world explodes in a chaotic shower of petals, green stems, and the earthy perfume of a thousand blossoms.

“Watch it!” he snaps, his voice a low growl of pure irritation.

He looks down at the mess, his perfectly polished shoes now dotted with my flowers. His expression, which had been all focus and professional polish, instantly melts into a grimace of utter horror. A sudden, violent shudder goes through his body. His nose twitches once, then twice, and then he erupts in a sneeze so catastrophic it sounds like a small explosion.

He stumbles back, his hand fumbling for his pocket, pulling out a small travel-size antihistamine from a tailored pocket. His face is now red, his eyes watering, and the piercing gray-blue eyes that were once so calculating are now just filled with an irritated chaos.

"Are you... allergic?" I stammer, a laugh threatening to escape despite my annoyance. This man is a walking contradiction. A suit, a sneeze, and a complete disregard for beauty.

As I slowly start to gather my ruined blooms, a single, potent question blooms in my mind, far more intriguing than the man himself: who is this man, and what kind of soul could be so allergic to flowers?