 H. Q. presents The Flower Shop on Foxley Street by Rachel Dove. Red by Sarah Borges. CHAPTER I. 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 Buble. 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. Buble, using his smooth, silky tones, did 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 mind-field 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. Life, 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 warm 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 shop front. 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 third 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 black 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 foxly flowers in honour of the street in Westfield it was on, to love blooms. She had overhauled the interior, too, lighting the walls with lovely cream and exchelle 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 out. Her parents were not thrilled with this modernisation at first, but they pretty much left her alone now, realising that they...