Like You Love Me (Honey Creek 1)

“Hello. I’m Holden.” He’s so close to me that I can feel his words bounce off my back. “You must be Haley.”

“I am. It’s so nice to meet you.”

I step to the side to give my brain some space to find its equilibrium. There are too many stimuli swirling to keep a level head.

Walking over to the counter for some fresh, Holden-free air, I take in Haley’s business. It’s beyond gorgeous in a palette of pinks and grays and yellows. The large center section of the building is a flower shop. To the right is a small, cozy bookstore that neatly incorporates sitting spaces for lounging. A coffee bar is flawlessly woven into the decor and brings both spaces together.

It’s typical Haley—a hodgepodge of directions that somehow come together beautifully.

“How did you two meet?” she asks.

I turn on my heel, my heart racing, to see Holden running a hand through his hair.

“We were great friends growing up,” he says easily. “I’d come to Honey Creek every summer and spend every minute I could get with her.”

So far, so good.

“We always had a connection . . .” He drops his hand and his eyes find mine. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips. “I ended up back there for a few weeks to help out my grandfather, and we just . . . clicked again.”

“Yeah. Just like that,” I add.

Haley flashes me a wide smile. “I love love. And second chances are the most romantic of them all.”

“That’s us,” I say, probably an octave too high. “A second-chance love story.”

“One for the ages,” Holden says, holding back a laugh.

He walks up beside me and pulls me into his side. I’m swallowed up in his firm, yet gentle touch.

“We used to hold hands while we built sandcastles at the park. Do you remember that, sugar?” he asks.

I look up at him. He’s grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Haley laughs. “Your love is too cute. Okay, I have the judge already here in the prep room. He brought a marriage license for you, just in case. I’m going to see if he’s ready, and then we can get started. Sound good?”

“Sounds super,” I tell her.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, I shove away from Holden. “‘Sugar’?” I ask, unable to hold back a shot of laughter. “No pet names.”

“You just look like a sugar. I can’t help it.”

“You’re going to look like a man without a wife if you keep it up.”

“I—”

“Are you two ready?” Haley’s voice rings through the flower shop, cutting off our debate.

Holden faces me so that Haley can’t see his face. The playfulness in his eyes fades as I stare into them.

I hold my breath as my ears fill with the sound of blood pouring through them.

“You ready?” he asks me softly.

I take in the emotions on the surface of his gaze. There’s kindness and concern, friendship and respect. If I told him I wasn’t ready and didn’t want to do this, there’s no doubt that he would tell Haley we changed our minds. He’d walk me to his car, and we’d eat candy and laugh on the way home about how we almost signed a marriage certificate.

But as I stand here surrounded by the smell of coffee and roses, knowing that a judge is a few feet away, it feels . . . like the right answer. This is the first time I’ve breathed easy in months.

Simply put, this is how I keep the Honey House. And if keeping everything that means anything to me requires putting my trust in a man whom I have more faith won’t screw me over than I did the guy I married the first time, then I’ll do it.

I’m game.

“Ready if you are,” I say to him.

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Let’s go.”

We turn toward Haley.

“Lead the way,” Holden says.

Haley’s face lights up as she waves for us to follow her. I fall in line behind Holden as we slip around the bar and through a doorway outfitted with dangling lights.

Once inside the small room, I gasp.

Roses in the faintest pink and lavender form a small arch above a doorway leading deeper into the building. Topiaries are arranged in displays on either side. Along the wall sits a long workbench decorated with ivy and a rope of soft white lights pinned to its edge.

A man in a black suit stands next to the far end of the bench. His hair is combed over a balding spot on top. He greets me with a warm, grandfatherly smile.

“Haley,” I say, her name coming out in a gush. “You didn’t have to do all of this.”

“Uh, yes, I did. You are getting married, Soph. Every bride needs flowers—especially ones getting married in a flower shop,” she says.

My will softens right along with my shoulders. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, friend.”