3️⃣

ORM

"Orm Thanomchai, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you don't trust me to do my job well enough. Never mind that I've been in business for longer than you've been alive, young lady."

I give Mrs. Whitten, owner and operator of Shoreside Flower Shop for the past thirty years, my most angelic smile.

"Not at all," I assure her. "I like to double-check things, just in case. You know how it is."

She laughs, her short gray bob swaying as she tosses her head back. "Double-check? More like triple-check. Can't blame you, though, dear. I know you want to make sure Josieandelijah's wedding is perfect."

I grin at the older woman. That's how all the locals know Josie and Elijah—not as two separate people, but as a single unit destined to stay together forever and ever. Even during the years when Elijah lived in California and their romance was nothing but a shared memory, a lot of people in Point Reyes struggled to get used to the idea of just Josie. I know that bothered her sometimes, but she's certainly not wasting her worries on it anymore.

"Yes, ma'am," I answer. "So, the lilacs..."

"The lilacs will be trimmed the morning of to make sure they're fresh and fragrant," Mrs. Whitten assures me. "And before you ask, yes, Mr. Linden already confirmed that the wisteria in the manor's conservatory is blooming beautifully. Mostly white, with hints of mauve."

I nod. "And the peonies for her bouquet?"

"They'll be pink and fluffy, just as they should be."

Josie's color scheme is unique, but definitely pretty. It's mostly white, of course, but with strategic pops of pastel blue, soft lavender, and the barest touch of delicate pink. She couldn't decide on a simple two-color combination, so we opted for a more complex spectrum that reminds me of the summer sky at dawn.

I sigh wistfully as I imagine how amazing it's going to look in just three days' time.

Three days. I have so much to do.

"You're the best, Mrs. Whitten, but I've really got to get going. I need to confirm that Gigi managed to get all the final ingredients needed for the reception dinner menu."

The florist snorts. "So, you're on a mission to harass all of us diligent, hardworking businesswomen today, huh?"

"The businessmen, too. I need to make sure Mr. Dechaine has the Mercedes ready."

Mayor Dechaine's father was kind enough to volunteer his vintage white convertible for Josie and Elijah to make a very stylish getaway in at the end of the reception. He's a collector of classic cars, and he occasionally rents them out—not for joyrides, but for things like photoshoots or locally produced movies, which happens a lot more often than one might imagine. Luckily, he's a huge fan of the town's beloved Josieandelijah, so we got a discount.

"Oh, don't you worry. I saw him scrubbing down that pretty little car earlier this morning when I drove by." Mrs. Whitten chuckles and winks at me. "But I'm sure you'd rather see it with your own eyes."

I flutter my eyelashes innocently. "You know me too well."

"You've always been such a lovely, smart lady, Orm. I always knew you Thanomchai girls would do something great. And I'm sure Josie is going to give just as much effort and attention to detail to your wedding one day."

At that last comment, my smile wavers ever so slightly. Mrs. Whitten doesn't seem to notice, being too busy fussing over a stem of foxglove.

It's not that I'm anti-marriage. Obviously not. I'm the co-owner of an event management company, and a lot of the events we manage are, in fact, weddings. It'd be a weird career path for me to follow if I didn't like them.

Still, even though it's been so much fun to plan Josie's wedding, I have a hard time imagining any of this stuff happening for me someday. After all, don't you typically have to be in love with someone to want to get married?

Falling in love sounds like more trouble than it's worth, if I'm being completely honest. I mean, maybe I'll get around to it someday, but for now...

For now, the thought of having a wedding of my own sounds like something out of an alternate reality.

Instead of admitting any of that out loud to Mrs. Whitten, I let out an easy laugh and say, "Yeah, maybe someday."

"Indeed. Now, don't you dare worry about these flowers. If I see you marching in here one more time in the next three days to micromanage me—"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mrs. Whitten," I promise her, offering her my brightest smile. "I know you've got everything under control."

She tuts her tongue, but there's a twinkle of humor in her eyes.

"Bye!" I chirp, twirling away toward the exit.

"Bye-bye, dear."

I tug my phone out of my back pocket as I push open the door, eager to see if Gigi Lee, owner of the local catering company, is available for me to stop by now. It'd be ideal if I could finish all of these errands by noon so that I can spend the rest of the day putting the final touches on the favors for the guests.

The wedding has a fairly large guest list—about two hundred people—which means I need to tie about two hundred white ribbons around two hundred tiny pots of local organic honey.

And then, of course, I have to adorn two hundred sachets of lavender tea and two hundred individually wrapped lemon cookies with personalized J&E stickers. Josie and Elijah thought it would be nice to have edible favors for the guests. All of the items are made here in Point Reyes, but it's moments like these when I wish practically half the town hadn't RSVP'd to the wedding.

Of course, Elijah will be stopping by for a couple of hours to help me while Josie's mother drags her away to a spa in Sonoma County. Still, I've learned that Elijah isn't very good at tying ribbons, so I'll still be doing most of the work.

I sigh to myself, eyes glued to the screen of my phone as the little bell on Shoreside Flower Shop's door tinkles merrily to signal my exit.

In my peripheral vision, the sidewalk seems clear enough for me to step confidently without looking up from my phone, but I'm immediately proved wrong when I smack directly into a firm, broad chest covered in starched white cotton.

The collision is so hard and direct that I bounce back slightly, nearly losing my footing on the brick walkway. A group of twenty-something-year-old girls in bikini tops and cut-offs giggle amongst themselves as they sidestep me.

"Sorry!" I exclaim to the impressively solid body as I struggle to regain my balance. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going, and I wish I could say that's totally unlike me, but—"

The rest of my sentence is chopped off the moment my eyes drift all the way up—to Lingling Kwong's face.

I blink in surprise. In the span of a few heartbeats, my brain scrambles and then reorders itself around a sudden flow of unexpected memories.

It's not such a strange thing for me to recognize someone outside a shop on Main Street. Point Reyes is a small town, after all, and there are plenty of familiar faces all around even during the height of tourist season. Furthermore, this hidden gem of a summer getaway plays host to a bizarrely huge proportion of celebrities and VIPs, which is yet another avenue for possible recognition.

But I don't recognize Lingling because she's a local or because she's a celebrity or some VIP summering in this coastal town.

I recognize her because... well, because she's Lingling Kwong.

And unfortunately, even after all this time, I'd recognize Lingling anywhere. Not because she's absurdly gorgeous—which she is—or because she has a presence that's impossible to ignore.

No, I recognize her because we used to know each other.

Well, know might be a strong word. But we crossed paths, briefly but memorably, years ago.

She's shorter than me—about 5'5" to my 5'7"—but she has a presence that makes her seem taller. Broad shoulders, an athletic build, and a confident way of carrying herself. Her deep brown eyes lock onto mine, sharp and assessing, and for a brief second, neither of us speaks.

Her hair, neatly tucked under a baseball cap, doesn't hide the fact that she's striking—both feminine and strong at once. Her casual outfit—loose jeans and a fitted white top—makes her look effortlessly cool in a way I could never manage.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. I haven't seen her in over a decade, and I honestly never imagined that I'd ever see her again.

What is she doing here? Shouldn't she be in Los Angeles? Or literally anywhere other than a random town tucked away on the California coast?

Before I can say a word, Lingling's lips twitch into a polite, neutral smile. It doesn't reach her eyes.

"It's my fault," she says smoothly, her voice low and even. "Excuse me."

Then, without another word, she steps past me and carries on walking.

Dumbfounded, I stand there in front of the flower shop for a long moment, staring at her retreating form as she strides purposefully toward a narrow lane of private beach cottages. She doesn't glance back at me—not even once. As if I'm just some random, unimportant woman she's never seen before.

As if she doesn't recognize me.

That can't be true. I haven't changed that much since I was sixteen. Sure, I finally coaxed some curves out of my previously stick-thin frame. My hair isn't as frizzy as it used to be, but it's still the same caramel-brown waves I inherited from my mother. My eyes are still the same—a light brown, that everyone in my family shares.

I shouldn't be unrecognizable. Not to her, at least.

Or maybe the fact of the matter is that she never paid nearly as much attention to me as I paid to her. Which is tragically pathetic of me.

I sigh heavily and look down at my phone again, only to have my attention dragged away from it yet again by a voice calling to me from the opposite direction of where Lingling had just disappeared.

"Orm? It's Orm, right? Oh my goodness, it's you! I swore I recognized you, but I wasn't sure and didn't want to make a total fool of myself."

I glance up, confused by the unfamiliar voice. Standing in front of me is a tall, broad-shouldered guy with neatly styled black hair and twinkling dark eyes. His smile is wide and easy, the kind that immediately disarms you. A hazy memory stirs in the back of my mind, but he must see the vagueness in my expression because he laughs and does me the favor of introducing himself.

"It's Eric Kendall," he says, pausing a couple of feet in front of me. "Do you remember me?"

Just like that, the recognition clicks into place. Right. Of course. Eric Kendall. He's way more muscular than he used to be, but those eyes and that laugh are unmistakable. His family summered here one year when I was in high school. We became... acquainted.

And by that, I mean that Eric Kendall was my first kiss.

Stranger still, that was the same summer I met Lingling Kwong.

I glance briefly back over my shoulder toward the private beachside lane, but Lingling is long gone. When I turn my focus back to Eric, he's still grinning expectantly.

"Wow," I blurt out. "Hi. Yes, of course, I remember. It's been ages! What are you doing here?"

"I came here to confess my undying love for you, obviously. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you for the past decade."

I snort. That's right—Eric was always a jokester. Hardly ever took anything seriously. I liked that about him.

"How gallant," I remark. "I'm surprised you even recognize me."

"Are you kidding? How could I not? You've always been stunning, Orm. I could never forget that."

That sort of comment might sound a little too flirtatious coming from someone else, but I know Eric is mostly kidding. Josie used to say the way he talks is superfluous.

"Oh, don't flatter me," I sigh, waving him off. "I'm too busy for it at the moment."

Eric places a hand over his heart as if I've wounded him, but he's still smiling in that easygoing way of his.

"Too busy to grab a drink and catch up with the guy you shared your first kiss with?"

At that, I can't help but laugh. It's so ridiculous and dramatic, and I'm also oddly giddy from his confirmation that I am, in fact, still recognizable as a twenty-two-year-old. Take that, Lingling Kwong.

"I seem to remember you not only gave me my first kiss but also a bad case of mono."

Eric winces, but then he laughs along with me. "Okay, okay, you've got me there. That wasn't my finest moment."

After kissing Eric that summer, I was sick for weeks and barely recovered in time to start my junior year. Josie got sick, too. Which meant that Elijah also got sick. It was a whole fiasco—small-town gossip at its finest.

Not that I was furious with Eric for it. It was an accident. He didn't realize he was sick when he kissed me. As the story goes, he'd shared a drink with his older sister earlier that day, and Natalie Kendall was most definitely not being selective about who she kissed during her brief stay in Point Reyes.

In fact, Eric and I kept in touch for a while after that summer. We were friends on Facebook, exchanged a few messages. Then, a couple of years later, while I was at Santa Clara University, he showed up at a college party in Fresno, where he was attending University of Fresno.

I remember us sharing a drink and talking for a bit, but then I got swept away by a group of my friends, and our connection fizzled out naturally. No hard feelings—just different lives heading in different directions.

Which is why it's wild to be standing in front of him now. All three of us—Lingling included—back in the same place, in the same tiny town, after all these years.