Chapter 7: The Meeting

—Killian—

I stood outside "Petals & Dreams" for ten minutes, watching through the window as she moved around the small shop like a dancer in her own private ballet. The afternoon light caught in her dark hair, and every gesture was achingly familiar—the way she tilted her head when considering a flower arrangement, how her fingers traced the petals with unconscious reverence.

It was definitely her. Even after five years, even with the different name and the careful way she'd rebuilt her life, I knew every line of her body, every graceful movement that had once driven me to distraction.

The question was: did she know I was coming?

Rebecca had made the appointment for me under Hart Enterprises, requesting a consultation for an "intimate corporate gathering." Nothing that would raise red flags, nothing that would send her running before I had a chance to look into her eyes and hear her voice again.

I pushed open the door, and the bell chimed softly in the floral-scented air.

She looked up from the white roses she was arranging, and time stopped.

Five years collapsed into nothing. She was still beautiful—more beautiful, if that was possible. The sharp edges of youth had softened into something deeper, more compelling. Her dark eyes were exactly as I remembered, wide and expressive, framed by lashes that had never needed mascara.

But something was wrong.

She looked at me with polite interest, the expression you'd give any potential customer walking through your door. No recognition. No shock. No fear.

Nothing.

"Good afternoon," she said, her voice warm and professionally pleasant. "Are you here about the corporate event consultation?"

I stood frozen in the doorway, my carefully planned opening words dying in my throat. She was speaking to me like I was a stranger. Like we'd never shared a bed, never exchanged vows, never spent three years learning each other's secrets in the darkness.

"Yes," I managed finally, stepping further into the shop. "Killian Hart."

I watched her face carefully as I said my name, looking for any flicker of recognition, any tell that would give her away. But her expression remained perfectly neutral, professionally interested.

"Mr. Hart, of course. Please, come in." She gestured toward a small seating area near the back of the shop. "I'm Celeste Whitmore. I understand you're looking for arrangements for an intimate gathering?"

Celeste Whitmore. She said the name like it belonged to her, like she'd been saying it her entire life instead of just the past four years. There wasn't even a hesitation, no stumble over the syllables.

But it was her. I was certain of it. Everything about her—the way she moved, the subtle grace in her gestures, even the way she spoke—was burned into my memory from three years of marriage and five years of trying to forget.

"That's right," I said, settling into the chair across from her. "Something elegant. Traditional. For about fifty people."

She nodded, pulling out a tablet to take notes. "What's the occasion, if you don't mind me asking? It helps me design something that fits the mood you're trying to create."

"A reunion," I said, watching her face carefully. "Old friends getting back together after years apart."

Still nothing. No flicker of understanding, no tightening around her eyes. Just professional interest and the kind of smile she probably gave all her customers.

"How lovely. Reunions can be so emotional, can't they? All those memories, all that history." She looked up from her tablet, and those dark eyes met mine directly. "Sometimes people change so much that old friends don't even recognize each other anymore."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Was she trying to tell me something? Or was I reading meanings into innocent conversation because I was desperate to believe she knew exactly who I was?

"Change can be good," I said carefully. "Sometimes people become better versions of themselves when they start over somewhere new."

"I believe that too." Her smile seemed genuine, untouched by any hidden meaning. "I've lived in Bellingham for several years now, and I love how the community embraces people who want to build new lives. No one asks too many questions about where you came from or who you used to be."

My hands clenched into fists in my lap. She was definitely sending me a message now. She had to be. But her expression remained open, friendly, completely innocent.

"Tell me about yourself, Ms. Whitmore," I said, leaning forward slightly. "Have you always been interested in flowers?"

"Oh, I prefer to keep things professional," she said with a polite smile. "But yes, I've always loved working with flowers. There's something peaceful about creating beautiful arrangements for people's special moments."

The deflection was smooth, natural. No personal details, no stories about her past. Just the kind of response any professional florist might give to a client making small talk.

"Do you have family in the area?" I asked, my pulse quickening.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hart, but I don't really discuss my personal life with clients," she said pleasantly. "I find it's better to keep things focused on business. Now, about your event—what's your budget range? That will help me determine what kind of arrangements we can create."

She was deflecting again, steering the conversation away from anything personal. But the way she did it was so natural, so professionally appropriate, that it didn't feel like she was hiding something. It felt like she genuinely didn't think it was any of my business.

"Of course," I said, frustrated by her professionalism. "I understand."

I tried a different approach. "This is a beautiful shop. Have you been in business long?"

"A few years now," she said, making notes on her tablet. "Long enough to build a good reputation in the community. Word of mouth is everything in this business."

Again, no specific details. No timeline that might give away when she'd arrived in Bellingham or where she'd come from. Just pleasant, professional responses that told me nothing.

"Is her father involved?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop myself.

She looked up from her tablet, her expression puzzled. "I'm sorry, whose father?"

The confusion in her eyes looked genuine. She had no idea what I was talking about, no context for the question. If she was Celeste, she would have understood immediately that I was asking about her daughter. The fact that she looked genuinely puzzled was either masterful acting or proof that she really didn't know who I was.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I thought you mentioned having a child."

"No, I don't believe I did," she said slowly, her brow furrowed with polite confusion. "Mr. Hart, are you feeling alright? You seem a bit... distracted."

"You're right," I said, running a hand through my hair. "I apologize. I've had a lot on my mind lately."

"It happens to all of us," she said kindly. "Now, back to your event. What would you like the floral arrangements to convey? Are you looking for something cheerful and celebratory, or more elegant and subdued?"

I forced myself to focus on the business at hand, even though every instinct I had was screaming that this woman was my ex-wife. "Something that acknowledges shared history," I said carefully. "These people have a complicated past."

"I see." She made a note. "In that case, I might suggest a mix of classic flowers with some unexpected elements. Roses for tradition, but maybe paired with something that represents new growth. Fresh starts."

"And what if some of that history was... painful? What if there were misunderstandings that were never resolved?"

She looked up at me with those dark eyes, and for a moment I thought I saw something flicker there. But then it was gone, replaced by professional interest.

"Well, flowers can't solve human problems, Mr. Hart," she said with a slight smile. "But they can create a beautiful setting for people to work things out themselves. Sometimes a lovely environment helps people remember what they valued about each other in the first place."

"The flowers," I said, forcing myself back to the supposed reason for my visit. "What would you recommend for a reunion?"

"Well," she said, her professional demeanor sliding back into place, "it depends on the tone you want to set. If you're looking for something that represents new beginnings and hope for the future, I'd suggest white roses mixed with baby's breath and greenery. Clean, elegant, forward-looking."

"And if I wanted something that acknowledged the past? The history between these old friends?"

She was quiet for a moment, studying me with those dark eyes that had once looked at me with love. "Then I might suggest incorporating some forget-me-nots," she said finally. "They represent true love and remembrance. But Mr. Hart?" She leaned forward slightly, and I caught a hint of her familiar perfume—jasmine and vanilla, exactly as I remembered. "Sometimes it's better to let the past stay in the past. Not all history is worth remembering."

Her words were generic, the kind of thing any florist might say to any client. No hidden meanings, no personal revelations, no acknowledgment of any shared past between us.

"The flowers," I said, trying once more. "What would you recommend for... old friends who haven't seen each other in years?"

"Well," she said, consulting her notes, "that depends on whether they parted on good terms or not. If it's a happy reunion, I'd suggest bright, cheerful arrangements. Sunflowers, gerbera daisies, something that speaks to joy and celebration."

"And if they didn't part well?"

She looked thoughtful. "Then maybe something more neutral. White roses, perhaps. Clean, elegant, suitable for any occasion without making assumptions about the emotional tone."

Again, nothing personal. Nothing that suggested she was thinking about our divorce, our painful ending, our years of silence. Just professional advice based on general principles of flower arranging.

At the door, I turned back to her one more time. She stood backlit by the afternoon sun streaming through the shop windows, looking exactly like the woman I'd married and divorced, but acting like a complete stranger.

"Ms. Whitmore," I said carefully, "have we met before? You seem... familiar."

She tilted her head, considering the question with apparent seriousness. "I don't think so, Mr. Hart. I have one of those faces, I suppose. People often think they recognize me." She smiled pleasantly. "I'm sure I would have remembered meeting someone in your position."

The response was so natural, so unguarded, that it left me speechless. There was no calculation behind it, no hidden meaning. Just a simple explanation for why I might think I recognized her.

"Of course," I said. "My mistake."

But as I walked back to my car, one thought echoed in my mind: either Celeste Blackwood had become the most accomplished actress on the planet, or the woman in that flower shop really was a stranger who happened to look exactly like my ex-wife.