Not My Type

Chapter 1 - The Flowers She Didn't Sell

NATHALIA:

Glass. Shattered.
And a hundred-dollar bill.

That's what I saw the second I rushed outside after hearing the sharp crash echo from the front of my plant shop.

We weren't even open yet. No online bookings. No scheduled pickups.
So... who the hell was out there?

I blinked, stunned. Ceramic shards from one of our hydrangea pots littered the pavement, sparkling in the morning light like they were trying to make amends. And lying beside them, as if it belonged there, was a crisp, perfectly folded $100 bill. Who could it be?

Only in New York, I thought. Half amused. Half annoyed.

The people on the sidewalk didn't even pause. They just kept moving—coffee-fueled, deadline-bound, headphones in, eyes forward. Unbothered.

I crouched to pick up the bill. It was real. Clean.

My favorite hydrangea—the blue one from the window display—was gone. Gone like it had meant something to someone.

Mugged by a plant thief with a moral code?
Sounds fake. Welcome to my life.

But even as I cleaned up the broken ceramic and brushed soil off the concrete, I felt it—a quiet tug, something deeper than curiosity. Who does something like this? Steals a flower, leaves money, disappears?

Still, there was no time to dwell. Claire would be in soon, and I had orders to prep and serotonin-in-a-pot to deliver to half of Manhattan.

Earlier that morning, the shop had been wrapped in moonlight and stillness.
Before the world woke up.

I sat behind the counter, pressing the last of a wilted bluebell into the pages of my leather-bound journal. My small, strange ritual. I do it with all the flowers that don't sell. Like I'm trying to preserve the almost.

One bouquet remained by the window—delicate, tired, forgotten.
I stared at it too long.
Funny how some things fade, even when they were once meant to be everything to someone.

The door jingled as Claire came in, balancing coffee and a box of muffins like some stylish, hyper-efficient fairy godmother.

"You've been here since six, haven't you?" she asked, handing me a latte.

"Early birds and all that," I said, giving her a tired smile.

She raised a brow. "Another insomnia night?"

I shrugged, sipping my coffee. "I'm fine."

"You don't have to lie, you know." She was digging through one of the delivery boxes but kept her tone light, not pushing.

"I'm really okay." I smiled again. The kind of smile you practice.

The rest of the day flew by in a blur of eucalyptus, ribbon ties, and back-to-back deliveries. The shop was finally finding its rhythm—after three months of fighting for breath in this chaotic, beautiful city.

Moved here to be closer to my grandparents—because family, because guilt, because I needed a new chapter.
I didn't land in a penthouse, either. My studio on Wall Street is tiny but charming.
Okay, yes, my family owned a real estate company once. And maybe a connection or two got me a discounted lease.
Still. I'm calling it a win for independence.

Next week, we've got this huge engagement order—roses, baby's breath, wild peonies.
Love in bloom. It always makes me a little soft.
I pretend I'm too practical for fairy tales, but the truth?
I want the real thing. Someone who shows up. Stays. Doesn't flinch when things get complicated.

By the time I flipped the lights and locked up, it was almost 6:40 p.m. I stepped into the evening air and immediately remembered the $100 incident from earlier.

Could it have been a prank? Someone capturing reaction videos or something?

No. New Yorkers don't prank. They disappear into the crowd, keep their secrets.

Back at the apartment, I dropped my bag, peeled off my clothes, and stood under the shower, letting the heat melt the day off me.

When I finally collapsed into my worn-in tee and soft shorts, all I could think about was tacos. And salsa. And guac. And—

My heart dropped.

My phone. Gone.

Panic hit like a sucker punch.
I tore the apartment apart like a lunatic. Couch? Empty. Laundry basket? Nope. Fridge? Checked it. (Yes, I know. But Desperate times.)

I lunged for my laptop and opened Find My iPhone.
There it was. Still at the shop.

Did I bother changing? Of course not. I grabbed my keys and sprinted through the streets like a woman possessed. Fuzzy slippers and all.

Grandma would call at 8:30 p.m. Sharp. She never misses.
And if I missed it?

She'd call every hospital in Manhattan, assuming something happened to me.

But just as the shop came into view, I stopped dead.
A black Maybach was parked in front.

A man stepped out.
Tall. Dressed like money. Moved like assassin, sleek.
He glanced up at my shop, then around the street—like he felt the weight of someone watching.

Then his eyes met mine.

For a second—half a heartbeat—we just stared at each other.

And then, just as quickly, he turned, got into the car, and drove away.

Gone.

I stood frozen. Confused.

Because something about his face looked familiar.
Not stranger familiar.
Memory familiar.