Disclaimer: I don't own Roald Dahl's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, nor do I own Tim Burton's adaptation of Mr Wonka. A/N: Okay, I don't know how far I'll go with this. I'm not really keen on romance, especially not the sappy kind, so I'm a try and see what happens. If there are any mistakes, sorry, I wrote this at 3am last night for some reason, lol! Enjoy xx

As the shop blinds flew up, the morning sunlight bored into Isabelle's eyes. She wasn't really a morning person, but then again who was in this city? Worn out from several sleepless nights, due to late night deliveries, the young florist had tied her dark hair scruffily into a bun. She didn't much care for self-appearance at work. It was the art of the flora arrangement that interested her. Isabelle was not a 'girly girl', indeed, on some occasions she was known to fall into distemper at the mere wink of local gentlemen.

It wasn't as though anyone to attract was likely to enter her shop at any rate. Miss Vane's Caterers, the place for all people married and happy or married and desperately in need of forgiveness. Singleton Isabelle arranged the plants and her good co-manager Mrs Soden baked the cakes, but Isabelle preferred life alone. Besides, it meant she wouldn't need to change the sign.

Today was no different from any other day in her opinion, except perhaps a tad more irritating. Her hands slid carefully in between the stalks if a rose bunch whilst she trimmed the thorns.

"Watch what you're doing, dear," Mrs Soden chided so suddenly that Isabelle stabbed a finger on the flowers. "You'll damage the stems."

"Yes Mrs Soden," Isabelle sighed, gritting her teeth at the pain.

"You know you really should have your hair down sometimes. I only keep mine up from the cakes, hygiene you know. Not that these American types take much notice," the kindly woman chuckled. "All too busy suing one another over trivial whatevers."

"I don't see as it matters," Isabelle replied, stuffing the flowers into a basket. "I'm starting to get the feeling you suggest this twice weekly."

"Once a week, dear."

Isabelle paused to frown at her colleague.

"And is there a reason for this?" she asked.

Mrs Soden averted her eyes and began to wander to her cake section.

"I just thought maybe you should look nice in case some handsome man should step through the door."

Isabelle raised her eyebrows.

"I see. They only arrive on Thursdays, is that it?" she said, unimpressed. "I'm sure I'll survive missing out on 'the man of my dreams' for one day. Not that I even need a guy, because I don't. I mean…have you seen any in particular?" She eyed Mrs Soden suspiciously.

"Well…" the old lady stalled as she squirted pink swirls on a three-tiered cake.

"Annie?" Isabelle pressed.

"There is one gentleman who tends to turn up on certain days. He seems fairly respectable. Little wonder from his job…"

Isabelle was barely listening, too busy tying a yellow ribbon on the basket in front of her.

"He's quite well known," Annie Soden added.

The young woman behind the counter nodded automatically.

"Goes by the name of Willy Wonka…?"

There was a clattering sound. Isabelle had dropped her scissors.

"The Willy Wonka?" she said, fixing Annie with a stare.

"Yes."

"In here? In our shop?"

"Mmhmm," Mrs Soden answered, nodding.

Isabelle was gobsmacked, but not for the expected reason. Most people in this city would light up at the mere mention of Mr Wonka – the most famous and marvellous chocolatier in the world, but not Isabelle. She had always worked hard and never asked for more than she owned. Since she wasn't a child now at the blossoming age of twenty-two, even the delights of chocolate were close to losing their charms. The frown now filled her face.

"Really Annie! I'm surprised you didn't chase him out with a broom. The nerve of him coming here! What on earth was he doing?"

"I think he wanted some flowers, actually," said Mrs Soden. "He's been visiting here at least once a month for the last year when he had those children allowed in his factory. Ever so strange, really. The poor man hardly ever leaves that place. It's a wonder I recognised him at all."

"But Annie, he nearly ran you out of business with his hulking great building," Isabelle insisted.

"That was a long time ago, dear. I have you now to make sure we stay open. He's not harming anyone and he even sent me a letter once to assure me he wouldn't go into the cake-making market."

"He did?"

"He did. Now take your fiery passions down a notch, miss, and give the poor menfolk a chance," Mrs Soden laughed. "I'll be back in a few minutes. I need some more flour from the basement. You get working on Mr Reynolds's order. He needs it for this afternoon."

Isabelle tutted to herself as Annie left through the back door. Fat chance of me trying for a multi-millionaire, she thought. I'm not some pathetic floozy who can't stand on her own two feet!

At that moment her own two feet slipped out from beneath her as something smacked into the backs of her knees. Her head hit the shelving behind her and the whole wall unit tilted dangerously. A gloved hand shot out and caught its frame.

A voice said, "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"

Isabelle looked up from the floor at the blurred image of an old man with a walking stick. She had no clue how he had gotten inside the shop let alone appeared behind her without her noticing.

Her eyes came into focus and she realised how odd this man was. His face was hidden by a large grey beard that hid even his lips, and a ridiculously huge pair of sunglasses. On top of his head perched a black top hat hiding either a bald scalp or a secret stash of hair.

"I-I didn't mean t-," the man stammered in a forced gruff voice.

"It's fine, honestly," said Isabelle as she picked herself up. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Yeah- uh, yes, I'd like to buy a plant," he replied.

There was something bizarre about the way he spoke – as though trying to stifle an overpoweringly embarrassing accent.

"Well, sir, we're florists. You might wanna go to a garden centre if you want one you can keep," Isabelle said awkwardly.

"Oh." He seemed a bit crestfallen.

The old man edged around to the front of the counter, leaning over his cane as he peered around the shelves. Isabelle watched him from the corner of her sight, and narrowed her eyes. Could it be?

A thin cord of elastic ran from behind the man's ear to his mouth. Before she could get a closer glimpse, he had turned to face her again.

"Do you have any of those more, um, exotic things? The liddle ones that snap at people?"

"I don't think so…" Isabelle began but spun at the sound of the storeroom door slamming.

"Oh look, dear, you have a customer!" Mrs Soden beamed, laden with a bag of lightly escaping flour.

The young shopkeeper heard the man laugh nervously and scratch his beard with a free hand. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. The man's entire facial hair had slid sideways. He wasn't an old man at all!

Annie took a proper glance at the arrival and nearly dropped her sack. She grinned in Isabelle's direction.

"What did I tell you, Izzy? It's Mr Wonka!" she cried.

Isabelle gawped at Mrs Soden.

"What?"

She looked towards the gentleman at the counter but there was no one to be seen. The shop's bell was ringing nearly off its hinges and only that drowned out the noise of hastily fleeing feet.