Chapter 2 Ghosts and Petals

The old bell above the door jingled for the first time in months.

Dust motes danced in the early morning sun as Olivia stepped into The Bloom Room with a bucket of cleaning supplies, a warm cup of tea, and a wild fluttering in her chest. Today, she wasn't here to mourn.

She was here to begin again.

Olivia pulled her hair into a messy bun, rolled up her sleeves, and stared at the task ahead-cobwebs, wilted wreaths, broken shelves, cracked tiles, and the faint scent of potpourri long gone stale.

It was overwhelming.

But it was also hers.

She started with the counter. Her grandmother had always kept it spotless. Every petal, every ribbon, every note card in its place. Cleaning it felt like polishing a piece of her own childhood.

As she scrubbed, she imagined Margaret humming softly behind her, the old woman's presence still strong in every creak of the wood and curl of the wallpaper.

"You don't run from roots, darling," her grandmother had once said. "You bloom through them."

God, she missed her.

Halfway through rearranging the shop floor, Olivia stepped outside for air-sweat on her forehead, hands sore, heart oddly light. She leaned against the doorframe and watched Rosebay pass by.

Kids zipped by on bicycles. Mrs. Alcott from the bakery waved and held up a croissant in greeting. Two tourists pointed at the old lighthouse on the hill.

And then she saw him again.

Lucas Hale.

He was walking across the street, a long measuring tape dangling from one hand, sawdust on his jeans, and a calm confidence in every step.

She froze.

He saw her.

And smiled.

But it wasn't a warm smile-it was guarded, curious.

"Thought you'd run back to the city by now," he said, stopping in front of the shop.

"Nope. I'm still here," she replied, trying to keep her tone light.

"Brave of you. The ghosts in there don't take kindly to strangers."

"Good thing I'm not a stranger."

He tilted his head, playful but skeptical. "Aren't you, though?"

His words landed like tiny stones in her chest.

"Look, I'm just trying to fix the place up. You know, bring it back."

Lucas folded his arms. "That's ambitious. You always did aim high."

Olivia didn't answer. Instead, she wiped her palms on her jeans and nodded at the inside of the shop.

"Come in. See for yourself. Unless you're afraid of a little dust."

He gave a mock scoff and stepped inside.

Lucas walked slowly through the shop, touching the wood beams, eyeing the cracked shelving, the old display tables.

"Still smells like roses," he murmured.

"And mildew," Olivia added.

He chuckled-a deep, surprising sound that made her stomach twist.

"It's got good bones," he said, crouching to inspect a loose floorboard. "But it needs serious work."

"I figured," Olivia said, wiping her brow. "It's not exactly a New York boutique."

"No," he said softly, standing again. "It's better."

The room went quiet. Their eyes met.

"You miss her?" he asked.

"Every second."

Lucas nodded, his expression unreadable.

"You gonna do this alone?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"You could ask for help."

She raised an eyebrow. "From you?"

He shrugged. "You'll need someone who knows woodwork. And patience."

Olivia gave him a look. "You offering, or just trying to show off?"

"Both," he said with a small grin. "I'll bring my tools tomorrow. You supply the coffee."

"Deal."

Their handshake lingered a second longer than necessary.

That evening, after Lucas left, Olivia sat in her grandmother's rocking chair by the bay window, a steaming cup of tea warming her hands. The shop felt different already-lighter, like it had taken its first real breath in a long time.

She stared at the empty shelves and cracked floor and saw more than a to-do list. She saw a life slowly unfolding.

And Lucas...

God, he looked so good.

Older. Quieter. Like time had chiseled something permanent into him.

But beneath his teasing tone and confident smirk, there was distance-hurt.

She couldn't blame him.

When she left for New York all those years ago, she hadn't said goodbye. Not to him. Not to anyone. Just packed up and vanished.

Because back then, she thought that leaving meant winning. That success was somewhere far from this sleepy town and the boy who made her heart race.

But now, she wasn't so sure.

Maybe she'd run from something that could have been real.

She opened the backroom that night-the one Margaret had always kept locked when customers were around. Inside were old dried flowers, books, scrapbooks, and boxes of memory.

Olivia found a small velvet pouch tied with a lavender ribbon.

Inside was a folded note:

"If you're reading this, you're home. I always knew you would be. Trust your heart, Liv. Even when it's bruised. Especially then." – Grandma

Tears pooled in her eyes.

There was something comforting about knowing Margaret had always believed in her return.

She clutched the pouch to her chest and let herself cry again-this time not just for her grandmother, but for the girl she used to be, and the woman she was becoming.

The next morning, when Lucas returned with his tools and that infuriatingly handsome grin, Olivia was already sweeping flower petals across the tiled floor.

"You're early," she said.

"You're stubborn," he replied.

"We're even, then."

And as they started the work of cleaning, painting, restoring, and-perhaps-healing, the ghosts that lingered between them began to stir.

But so did something else.

Something that smelled like lavender and sawdust.

Something that might just be love.