la vie en rose, trent alexander-arnold

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the bell

a soft piano tune floats through the belrose shop where maisie is busy finishing the last of the rose bouquets. flower by flower, the scissors are cutting their thorns to make sure that none of them could inadvertently hurt a customer. the shop is peaceful on this thursday morning and the young woman doesn't expect to see many more people during the day. it is like that, some afternoons are quieter than others.

"excuse me?"

maisie gasps as a rose slip from her hands and a thorn cut into her finger. she lets out a small cry and then begins to shake her bruised limb in all directions to get rid of the pain —unsuccessfully, a drop of blood starts to bead up from the slit that has been created on her skin. maisie, who doesn't want her customers to get hurt, often forgets about her own safety.

"shit, are you okay?" a male voice calls out in the empty store, and maisie looks up to meet disturbing hazel eyes, "you should put your hand under some cold water, to stop the bleeding."

without answering, the woman's gaze is quickly drawn to the bell above the door where the man has entered. that stupid bell is no longer ringing and maisie has been needing to fix it for days now. she immediately blames her luck; the most embarrassing part of the day has to be when she meets the most attractive customer she's ever seen in her entire career as a florist.

"i'm fine," maisie finally stammers, looking at his beautifully dreaded hair, his full lips, and his irises hinting at a slight concern for her, "believe me, it happens to me almost every day."

an attempt at a smile washes over her mouth, but she isn't exaggerating; the thorn cut on her fingers joins the dozens of others that dots the skin of her hands, in various stages of healing. working with slightly temperamental flowers while being somewhat clumsy causes this sort of unpleasantness regularly.

"i'm sorry, i didn't mean to scare you," the man is still frowning, obviously very concerned. so, maisie offers him her most reassuring smile and immediately receives one in return. but his is so disarming that she almost has to lean on the counter to keep from fainting.

"it's all right, don't worry. it's my fault anyway," the young woman declares, "do you have a bouquet idea in mind or-?"

"a bouquet of white roses, please," he pulls out his credit card, and maisie nods her head in agreement —white roses are surely her favourite.

"sure, tell me what size of bouquet would suit you best?" pointing to her panel of white roses, she waits patiently for the man to decide.

"this one, please," designing the bouquet he wants, she proceeds to carry it to the counter with some difficulty —he has picked the largest.

a navy blue paper chosen and wrapped around the stems of the roses, this time harmless, she finally comes to her favourite part: the ribbon that seals it all together. she has thousands of them in all sorts of textures and colours, so, that the girl soon wouldn't know where to store them in the little stash.

while waiting for her to finish preparing his demand, the man takes the opportunity to have a quick look around the shop, whose front he has found charming in the middle of liverpool. it is the perfect opportunity for maisie to study the young man in profile, looking at some pretty tulips. he is really handsome in his expensive down jacket, with his blunt nose and irises almost as dark as his skin tone. when he smiles, the man shows all his teeth, and his eyelids crinkle so much that his eyes almost disappear.

as her customer's footsteps return to the counter, she makes her gaze more discreet by returning it to the bouquet she has just finished refining. it is only when she presses her marker against the surface of a cardboard label that maisie realises she has forgotten to ask him a few details —probably too troubled by him.

"i forgot, is it to offer?" a nod is enough of an answer and she is able to unwind the end of her question, "can i have his or her name, and yours as well? please," maisie secretly hopes it is his, although unlikely.

surprised, the man blinks for several seconds before he resumes when he catches a glimpse of the 'gift' tag between her fingers, understanding the origin of her questions. a tender smile then plays on his lips, "i'm trent. the flowers are for ava."

a disappointed sigh is suppressed between maisie's lips as she nods; it is her. the squeaky sound of her marker then sets about carefully inscribing the words: 'from trent to ava'. a small heart surrounded by a flower puts a dot on the note.

"ava is a pretty name," the woman still compliments as she attaches the label she has just filled into the bouquet.

"it is, indeed," trent smiles and adorable little crow's feet creep into the corners of his eyes. maisie, feeling her cheeks begin to heat up, looks away. their hands brush together as he retrieves his flowers.

"your shop is really beautiful," trent means it. the peaceful atmosphere of the melodious tunes in the speakers and the sweet scent of lilacs tickling his nose makes him smile. maisie graces him with a grin before he starts again, "i guess i'll see you around?"

"whenever you need a bouquet, i'll be there," she smiles awkwardly, "i hope she'll like the flowers."

"me too," trent replies with a smile, and maisie watches in fascination as his face softens into an expression so appreciative she could stand there for many minutes admiring it. "thank you. have a nice day."

"you're welcome. you too," the door closes behind trent, and maisie slumps against the counter, terribly dazed by his charm.

she then spots the wicker basket full of visiting cards by the cash register, and she takes one in her hands and pinches the bridge of her nose, mentally calling herself an idiot. if margaret, the shop owner and incidentally her grandmother, was here, she would surely slap maisie's fingers —even if they are already well bruised.

her grandmother's favourite reprimand is running through her head: 'a customer should never leave without a visiting card, otherwise, they will surely forget about us and never come back.'

fortunately, today margaret is at rest; she will never know about her granddaughter's clumsiness.

as she places the card she has been holding between her fingers alongside its own in the basket, maisie finally realises that the stabbing pain from her cut has not gone away.

the door opens again and the girl looks up hopefully, but it is obviously not trent who returned. instead, she meets with a woman in her fifties staring at the counter in a way that tells her she'd better get her bouquet ready, and fast.

with a sigh, maisie goes back to her task under the icy gaze of her new customer, contrasting far too much with the softness of trent's coffee irises.

— notes.
know that i cherish this
story with my whole heart
so please, take care of it 🌷💐