The Flower Shop on Foxley Street

A new love could be about to bloom for Lily

Lily Rose Baxter loves her little flower shop on Foxley Street and the freedom and independence from her family that it represents.

Lily can’t help but feel that something is missing from her life…, but when mysterious stranger Will Singer comes into her shop looking for the perfect bouquet of roses, all that could be about to change.

Fans of Holly Hepburn and Cathy Bramley will adore this bright, warm women’s fiction read.

Also from Rachel Dove

The Chic Boutique on Baker Street

The Flower Shop on Foxley Street

Rachel Dove

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Endpages

Copyright

RACHEL DOVE is a mum of two from Yorkshire. She has always loved writing, has had previous success as a self-published author, and is the author of The Chic Boutique on Baker Street. Rachel is the winner of the Mills & Boon Prima Flirty Fiction competition.

She is the winner of the 2016 Writers Bureau Writer of the Year Award and has had work published overseas. She is currently working on her 5th book, and can often be found glued to a keyboard.

She is a former post 16 teacher and is passionate about English, reading and special educational needs.

Acknowledgements

Acknowledgements to me are sometimes harder to write than an actual book, as I worry about leaving people out.

Lots of effort goes into making a book, from the first idea to seeing it out there in the world, and it's not just me sat behind a keyboard that makes it happen.

First of all, a big thanks to my editor Anna Baggaley, who is responsible for turning my ideas into the polished versions you amazing readers get to read, and the HQ Digital team for giving my characters a home.

As always, authors and bloggers are an important part, and I have to give a big shout out to my author family, who keep me sane, make me laugh and don't judge me for my Gerard Butler obsession.

(Gerard, if you're reading this, call me.)

To name but a few: Lisa Hall, Holly Martin, Ann Troup, Portia MacIntosh, Darcie Boleyn, Ann Troup, Raven Allen, Lynda Stacey, Sarah Bennett, Kaisha Holloway, JB Johnston, Claire Allen and Roxie Cooper.

Also a shout out to Mills & Boon and Prima magazine, who helped me start this journey

Love you all

Dedication

In memory of the late great

Stuart Malcolm Cockell

Gone but never forgotten

CHAPTER ONE

Lily Rose Baxter pulled up to Foxley Street in her bright pink van and, after turning the engine off, closed her green eyes and finished off her conversation with Michael Bublé. Or rather, she rested her head on the worn headrest and let the rest of his song, playing from the radio, wash over her as she finished her imaginary conversation. It was the same as usual, Bublé using his smooth silky tones to declare that he was leaving his life, and hopping on the nearest jet to Westfield to pick her up. She always played hard to get in her daydream, as any girl would, but today, if Mr Bean turned up in his mini with a bag of Haribo she would dive into his arms and chug off into the sunset.

Home was horrible. It was a minefield of awkward silences, pointed barbs and downright open hostility. Going down to breakfast this morning felt like it needed a two-drink minimum. Lily had finally called it a day after the fourth insult and got breakfast on the go instead. If a banana salvaged from the bowl on her way past counted as a morning meal. She knew Roger would have the coffee machine going, and the thought of that java warming her bones thrilled her.

Retailers as a rule hated the January slump, but Lily was optimistic. She knew January brought with it a new year of occasions, new loves, the promise that this year would be the one when her life changed. This year also heralded her thirtieth birthday, and she hoped that it would be an important year for other reasons too.

She zipped her body warmer up to the top and, flicking an errant leaf off her blue jeans, she got out of the van, locked up, and half jogged to her shopfront. It was still early, only just after eight, but she knew that the fresh delivery would be in, and Roger would be hard at work with today’s orders.

Thank God for Roger. As she opened her front door, she heard the familiar tinkle of the bell and was hit with the welcome scent of flowers and foliage. The radio was playing in the back, and she could hear her assistant and friend humming along to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. The weight in her shoulders lifted, and she worked her fingers on the knot at the base of her neck as she flicked the shop sign to open.

‘Morning! Happy 3rd of January!’ a happy voice trilled. Roger came around the corner, a large white lily in hand. ‘Coffee?’

Lily beamed at him, nodding. ‘That would be great, thanks. Is that the Carson order?’

Roger nodded at the flower sadly. ‘Yes, poor Mrs Carson. These winters in the countryside, poor old dears drop like flies.’

Lily shook her head good-naturedly at his trademark bluntness. Roger didn’t have a nasty bone in his body, but he spoke as he found, which was precisely why he survived here, and why they got on so well. It took a strong character to stomach her parents, and Roger seemed to survive each event unscathed.

Lily wished she could do the same. That morning had been terrible. Every morning, in fact, was pretty dire. It was like living in a battlefield. She fully expected to come down to breakfast one morning to find her parents in trenches at each side of the house.

Roger made her a drink and they gravitated to the large solid woodwork island in the back. They both took a seat on their stools, pausing to sip at the warm brew. Roger was eyeing her over the top of his mug, and she was intentionally pretending not to see him. The flower shop looked great, and Lily never tired of looking at it. Since her parents retired six months ago, allowing her to buy them out, she had really made it her own, renaming it from Foxley Flowers, in honour of the street in Westfield it was on, to Love Blooms.

She had overhauled the interior too, lightening the walls with lovely cream and eggshell blue colours, and buying a computer to take online orders. Not that many people in Westfield used the net to order, but orders from neighbouring towns and villages were increasing as word got around. Her parents were not thrilled with this modernization at first, but they pretty much left her alone now, realizing that they had sold the shop to her to do as she wished, and so they could enjoy their retirement. They were still guarantors for her huge loan, but she knew that one day it would be hers on paper as well as in her heart.

Lily realized that Roger was still staring at her over his Kenco. She raised a brow at him.

‘What?’ she drawled.

Roger pursed his lips and smiled slyly. For a man who constantly wore cardigans, he could pull some comical faces.

‘You know what, dear. I keep telling you, clean the flat out upstairs and move there! It’s yours – there is only crap up there. A bit of furniture from A New Lease of Life, a few cushions et cetera. A trip to IKEA, and you are sorted. Your own pad, close to work – and NO parents!’

Lily nodded along, having heard this speech many times. ‘I know, I know, and I have thought about it, don’t get me wrong, but …’

‘But,’ Roger retorted, swilling his cup out in the sink and getting to work on the wreath again, ‘you are waiting for Mr Tiny Balls to man up and plan the wedding, and for your parents to be happy again.’

Lily laughed. ‘Don’t call him that! He doesn’t have tiny balls!’

Roger shrugged. ‘Does he not?’

Lily shook her head in exasperation, draining her coffee and heading over to the order book.

‘No, he works with them, obviously, but the way you say it – and anyway, my parents need me at the moment. It’s a very delicate time in their lives –’

‘Delicate!’ Roger snorted. ‘Forgive me, dear, but they have retired, their amazingly talented and green-fingered only child has taken on their legacy, their house is paid for, and they have money in the bank. The world is their oyster! They have their health, time. People work to be in their positions all their lives! Excuse me if I don’t break out the violins.’

Lily leant over the counter, resting her head on the order book’s white pages.

‘I know, I … I just can’t go yet; they are not seeing eye to eye at the minute, and it’s pretty bad.’

Roger snipped a stem, thrusting it into the green oasis mount.

‘Honey,’ he said, flicking out a hip, ‘you are thirty this year. You have your own business, and you have talents. Stop waiting for other people to get a grip on their lives; take charge of your own. Trust me. I waited years to come out to my family, lived a lonely life of lies, and when I came out, my mother laughed as though I was telling her the sky was blue!’

Lily looked across at her friend, who was arranging flowers while wearing a clothing combo of floral shirt, cardigan, fitted skinny jeans and blue glittery brogues. He lived in the village with his husband, James, who was a businessman and property developer, and their dog, a huge sloppy Great Dane called Bruno. She couldn’t imagine him dulling his light to make others feel comfortable.

‘It’s a bit different, Roger. I don’t have some big part of myself hidden, like you had to.’

‘Don’t you?’ he asked, pointing a length of baby’s breath at her in accusation. ‘You have plans, my dear, things you want to do. I follow your Pinterest boards, I see your sketches.’

Lily darted a look at him. ‘Stalk much?’

‘Yes, I do,’ he said rather proudly, causing her to giggle.

The trill of the bell announced the arrival of a customer, and as Lily walked to the front shop floor area, she heard him calling after her.

‘There you go, don’t ask who the bell tolls for – it tolls for you! Opportunity knocking!’

‘Ssshh.’ She batted her hand behind her as she walked away.

When she saw who it was, she blushed furiously.

‘Sorry about that, good morning! Would you like the usual?’

‘Good morning, yes please.’

She smiled briefly at the man in front of her, before turning away to get to work on the bouquet he ordered twice a week. Monday and Friday morning, regular as clockwork.

‘So,’ the deep male voice said, ‘good weekend?’

Lily almost snipped off her finger instead of the stem of a gerbera daisy as she had flashbacks of her weekend.

‘Er … not bad, a little boring really. You?’

The voice hesitated. ‘Er, same really. Dinner with friends on Saturday evening. I had a bit of work to get done, so I wouldn’t call it a weekend, really.’

Lily nodded, wrapping the blooms in tissue paper and cellophane. She took them over to the counter.

‘Okay for you, before I ribbon them up?’ She allowed herself then to look at him fully. He looked back at her momentarily, before glancing at the bouquet with a nod.

‘Perfect, thanks.’ She smiled at him. He was dressed in his usual work gear, and with it being January, he had a beanie hat on. Dark brown tendrils of hair licked around the edges, and she knew from memory that under his hat was a crop of thick curly locks. Down from the hat, he had a beautiful pair of deep chocolate brown eyes, hooded with thick lashes the average girl would kill for. She noticed he looked tired, with a day or two of stubble on his chiselled chin. She forced herself to look away before she peeked at his adorable lips. She could already feel her cheeks burning with heat.

She concentrated on wrapping the bouquet with ribbon, taking care not to curl her fingers instead whilst using her scissors with shaky hands.

‘All done,’ she said, relieved, and she passed them over the counter. He was looking at her, not moving, and Lily frowned. ‘You okay?’

He started, reaching for the bouquet clumsily. His fingers brushed hers, and Lily felt the roughness of them against her own. She shivered a little, and from the look on his face, he saw it. Damn.

‘Sorry,’ he said, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth, ‘half asleep today. How much?’

‘Twenty pounds as normal, please,’ she replied, looking intently at the bouquet in his hands, rather than at him. ‘You need coffee. There’s a little café next door, with some seating. It’s nice and quiet.’

He raised his eyebrows a little as he handed over the notes. ‘Really?’ Something tugged at the side of his mouth, like a smile trying to escape.

‘Yes, it’s nice. I love their caramel latte. Do you like coffee? Or tea? They have tea.’

‘Do you mean now? I just, I have to go to work –’

‘Oh no! I didn’t mean with me, oh God no. I just mean you could have a rest before work, wake up a bit.’ She was panicking now, and she knew it. She had just accidentally kind of asked the man out! He looked at her open-mouthed, as though he was struggling to think of something to say. No doubt trying to make a swift escape from the crazy florist. Damn, a regular customer she couldn’t afford to lose either.

She looked behind her frantically, to see Roger staring at her, a ridiculously large grin on his face. She motioned behind her back for him to come and rescue her, but he just shook his head as if to say nope, you dug this hole, you dig yourself out.

He spoke again, his deep voice cutting through the high-pitched squeaking in her head. Here it comes, she thought. The embarrassing it’s not me, it’s you – crazy loony woman I have no wish to spend time with. She had to will her own eyes to stay open. She almost wished her parents were here. A good bicker would defuse the tension.

‘I could do tomorrow, same time. I have a late start but I would like to chat with you, actually.’

Lily’s mouth would have dropped to the wood floor if her lower face wasn’t frozen in a terrified lock-jaw grimace. She willed herself to speak. The first attempt came out as a whisper, so she cleared her throat and tried again. This time she sounded like Joe Pasquale, but she ran with it. ‘I, I don’t think …’

He looked straight at her, probably seeing a slight sense of panic crossing her features as she fumbled her refusal. The look on his face was so confusing that she couldn’t finish her sentence.

‘Go on,’ Roger said into her ear, his body suddenly so close she could feel his cardigan buttons digging into her spine. ‘For once in your life, take a chance.’ Lily was still staring, stuttering at the man before her, but Roger’s words stopped her dead.

‘Yes, tomorrow’s great,’ she said in a flourish of bravado.

‘Lovely! She will see you then!’ Roger stepped even further forward, giving her a sneaky poke in the back with his finger. She managed to smile at the customer, or at least that’s what she thought it was. She might have looked constipated, at best. He smiled and nodded.

‘Great,’ he said easily, as though he made coffee dates all the time (he probably did, to be fair – the man was sex on a stick) and giving her a little wave and a smile that melted her heart, he left. Turning at the door, he looked at her again, a deep look that nearly knocked the feet from beneath her. For a second she thought he was going to come back, change his mind, but he just looked at her as though he was asking her a question she didn’t know the answer to.

She looked right back at him, wondering what he was thinking, and why she asked herself this question every time she saw him. He smiled again, a tiny twitch on his lips, and then he strode away. It seemed that no answers would come today.

Lily stood at the counter, frozen solid, his cash still clenched tight in her hand. Her face felt as though it was on fire, and her whole body tingled. Roger had gone in the back and came through with the finished wreath, heading to the van. He gave her a tap on the arm that threatened to topple her mannequin challenge pose off balance.

‘Wow, girl, I should give you a pep talk every morning! That, my dear, took balls. Not tiny balls either!’ He tittered at his own joke as he set off on his delivery.

***

Just outside the shop, after walking to his flatbed truck, Will Singer opened his door, jumped in, and laid the blooms carefully on the passenger seat. He wondered to himself at how his morning had turned for the better. Monday mornings were not so bad after all – it seemed this one at least had improved. He looked at the carefully put together blooms and thought of the girl behind the counter. He’d had no intention of asking her out; he just knew that this was something he could never do. When she had talked about the café, something in him had just woken up, seized the day. Carpe diem and all that. Before he had engaged his brain, his tongue had made a move.

He shook his head at himself in the central mirror. He put the key in the ignition and, placing his hands on the wheel, he realized he had forgotten again, and his heart dipped back into his boots.

Reaching over into the glove box, he pulled out a small cardboard box, the size of a brooch box. It rattled as he pulled it open. His smile faded, and he frowned. Back to reality, he thought, sliding the gold wedding band back onto his ring finger. The ring felt like a brand of hot iron around his skin, and not for the first time, he wondered how long he could keep juggling the people in his life.

Sometimes, when he lay in bed at night, listening to the silence around him, he tried to put the pieces together, but they would never fit. He could never make everyone happy at the same time. Whatever he did next, he would end up hurting someone along the way.

Now, with this latest morning event, he had a whole new piece to fit into the map of his life. This piece was brand new, shiny. It made him happy to think of it. He made a promise to himself there and then. He would keep this piece separate. He wouldn’t even try to blunt the edges to make it fit. He would keep it to himself, just for a little while, and then he would sadly let it go.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Morning, Mrs Evesham, looking good with that swing!’ Stuart shouted as he flew past the blonde on the green. She waved at him, wiggling her bottom as he drove past. He was in his element, riding his personalized golf cart like it was a Maserati around the Willard Westfield Golf Club and Spa. Spencer Willard was the founder, long departed, and apparently a bit of a character.

Stuart liked to think he was keeping the spirit alive, giving the people who subscribed to the place the authentic Willard experience. Being the resident golf pro and sports manager, it was his prerogative that the business did well. He was always on the lookout for new talent, longing for the day a pampered child would walk in and be the next Tiger Woods, under his expert tutelage. Then he would be off, back on the tours, manager to the stars. Or his father would finally relent, give him the much-needed money and clout to play again on his own talent.

That was the plan anyway. Since his own tours had ended relatively early, and the sponsorship deals had dried up, his father had cut him off, declaring him to be a disappointment. The black sheep in the sporting family. It was only thanks to the nagging and pleading eyes of his mother that her husband eventually pulled a few strings to get him this job, up in the sticks of Yorkshire. Coming up to eight years later, Stuart Woodward was still wondering what the hell had happened to bring him here, and when something would come along to get him out of it. Back to the life that he should have, the existence worthy of a Woodward.

Stuart came from a long line of sporting heroes: rugby stars, tennis pros. His cousin Gerry even played football for England. Golf, whilst still considered a sport by many, was frowned upon somewhat by his family. His father loved golf – watching it, and playing it on a Saturday – but as for making a career out of it? Not so much.

Stuart frowned as he pulled into his parking space. Thinking back to the summers of his childhood made him shudder, even more than the cold snap in the post-Christmas weather. He was distracted from thoughts of him being belittled in the garden with his little plastic golf set by a vibrating in his pants. He climbed out of the cart and answered the phone in one swift movement.

‘Stuart Woodward. I put the swwwwiinnggg in your swing!’ There was a little hesitation, and then he heard Lily’s soft voice.

‘Wayne’s World quotes again? We have spoken about this,’ she said teasingly, and he smiled into the phone at the sound of it. Just hearing her voice made him forget about his family pressures. She made him relax without even trying, and he loved her for that.

‘Hey, baby, sorry, I thought it was a work call.’

‘And that’s how you answer work calls?’ she asked, obviously amused. ‘I er, I just wanted to know if you were free for lunch today. I can’t meet tomorrow now, I have a meeting with a … supplier.’

Stuart caught the waver in her voice. ‘You okay? You sound weird.’ It was true – she didn’t sound herself. Stuart could hear it in her voice. Not for the first time, he wondered whether she was as happy as he had been assuming she was. In truth, even Stuart expected her to wake up one day and realize he was more Beast than Prince Charming.

He started to walk down the drive to the large gravel path that ran to the golf club. Even in this weather, it was beautiful – even if the greenery was a little worse for wear. He would have to get a gardener in. Since the last person left, he had struggled to fill the position. Probably because Amazonian women with big racks were not often chomping at the bit to work in gardening. His last hire looked like a budget version of Charlie Dimmock, minus the personality and the incredible natural scaffolding. And she didn’t know one end of a conifer from the other. He suddenly became aware that the line was quiet.

‘Sorry, babe, what was that?’

‘I said I am fine,’ Lily replied, sighing a little. ‘It was a little fraught this morning at home, that’s all. I really think we need to talk about getting this wedding started, maybe it will give them something to talk about, as well as improve my living situation.’

Stuart winced. The golf club, being an old-fashioned establishment, didn’t allow him to have permanent guests overnight in his accommodation, a small cottage on site, but when they married it would be a different matter. No more excuses to hide behind. No more free rein. Could he do well as a married man? He knew himself well enough to doubt it.

‘I know, Lily, but we can’t rush these things just to stop your parents killing each other, can we.’

He could hear the tut down the line, and as he walked to his office, he knew that Lily was mad. The tone of her voice confirmed it, and he nibbled his lip nervously.