He sees the bouquet on the counter. Stares at it like it insulted him. And maybe in a way it did.
“That’s what you got?” he asks, low and tight.
I nod, holding up the card. “No note. Just my name. The note the day before. I didn’t think—”
He steps toward me, gentle now, wrapping a hand around the back of my neck. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I thought it was you,” I whisper. “The note, I figured you were being sneaky and romantic.”
His jaw ticks. “I don’t do sneaky.”
“I know that now.”
He takes the card from me, flips it over, then walks to the front of the store and locks the door.
“I’m staying,” he says. “Until we figure this out. And I wouldn’t send you roses. Dahlias, your favorites or tulips even, but not red roses.”
“Elijah—” I whisper. He knows my favorite flowers. Of course he knows, he’s amazing like that.
“No,” he says, gently but firmly. “This isn’t someone with a bookstore crush. This is someone watching you. Who knew you’d think it was me. That’s not romantic. That’s calculated.”
He turns back to face me, and now he’s all steel and shadows. My heartbeat’s in my throat. And weirdly… I’m not scared. Because Elijah’s here.
And if someone is watching me, they’re about to learn the hard way:I’m not alone.
Chapter thirteen
Ava
It’sbeenafewdays since the flower incident. No more notes, no more bouquets—nothing. Saying Elijah’s been on edge would be putting it mildly. That day, he practically camped out in the shop, eyeing every man who came near the counter like they were a suspect and making tense phone calls. I’m almost certain I heard him speaking Italian at one point.
It took some serious persuading to convince him to let us open to the public. Eventually, Asher stepped in and told him he’d handle the studio so Elijah could stay close to me.
He’s settled down a little now—or at least, that’s what he wants me to believe.
I have to admit that there’s something deeply comforting about how seriously he takes my safety. It makes me feel protected—loved in a way that’s hard to put into words. And if I’m honest, part of me is drawn to this more dominant side of him.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m completely smitten with his usual cinnamon-roll-like sweetness. That warm, soft-hearted charm is part of what drew me in. But this? This quiet intensity, the way he steps into a protective role without hesitation—it’s stirring something in me I didn’t expect. Feelings I’d only ever associated with fictional characters, the kind I read about in books… like the one I’m finishing now. One I shelved behind the counter and kept glancing at like it had teeth. Like if I opened it, it might bite—or worse, awaken something. But I took it home last night.
And I finished it this afternoon, legs curled on the couch, heart pounding as I read every filthy, delicious, strangely tender page.
It wasn’t just the sex. It was the tone. The devotion. The trust. The raw, instinctive care. The way she called him Daddy, and how he owned it. How it made her feel safe, powerful, and loved.
It did something to me. I’m still holding the book in my lap when Elijah walks in, smelling like cedar and ink and that aftershave that makes my knees weak.
He drops his keys in the bowl and pauses when he sees my face.
“You okay?” he asks, cocking his head.
I nod too quickly. “Mhm. Yep.” I say making the ‘p’ pop
His eyes narrow. “What are you reading?”
I lift the book slowly, the cover giving away everything. The title is bold, suggestive—no way to play it off. “Claimed By Daddy” by JL Quick
He raises an eyebrow, walks closer. “Oh? This kind of mood?”
I roll my eyes, already warm under the skin. “It’s just fiction.”
