I’m here because three days ago, I watched this woman from the coffee shop across the street, laughing with a customer while she wrapped their purchase, and I haven’t been able to get her out of my head since. I’m here because I did something I never do, I asked questions. Found out her name is Elena Harper. She opened this shop two years ago and she lives in the apartment above it. Also, she’s single.
That last piece of information probably shouldn’t have pleased me as much as it did.
“How wonderful!” She clasps her hands together, and I notice the silver rings on her fingers—one with a moonstone, another with what looks like a tiny pressed flower under glass. “Is she traditional? Modern? What’s her style?”
I think of my mother, who has presided over the De Luca family’s charitable foundation for the past thirty years while tactfully ignoring exactly where the money comes from. Who arranges white roses in crystal vases and attends Mass every Sunday.
“Traditional,” I say. “Elegant. Classic.”
Elena nods thoughtfully, already moving toward a display of deep red roses. “These are gorgeous, obviously. Can’t go wrong with roses at Christmas. But—” She pauses, tilting her head as she studies me. “I’m sensing these might be a little... expected? For your mother?”
I’m not sure what shows on my face, but something makes her grin.
“See, I knew it. She probably gets roses from everyone. Let me show you something special.”
She leads me deeper into the shop, past buckets of carnations and baby’s breath, past tall stems of some purple flower I can’tname. Her presence is like a living thing, all warmth, energy and light. She talks as she walks, her hands gesturing animatedly.
“The thing about Christmas flowers is everyone defaults to red and white, right? Poinsettias, roses, lilies. And don’t get me wrong, they’re beautiful. But there’s so much more you can do.” She stops in front of a section I hadn’t even noticed, tucked into a corner near the back. “Like this.”
I look where she’s pointing and actually catch my breath.
The arrangement she’s indicating is breathtaking. White amaryllis blooms rise from a bed of dark greenery—pine, cedar, something with silver-green leaves I don’t recognize. Woven through it all are branches of something with small red berries, and the whole thing is accented with touches of gold-painted pine cones, subtle ribbon, a dusting of something that catches the light like snow.
“Amaryllis represents pride and beauty,” Elena says softly, reverently, like she’s sharing a secret. “But also determination and strength. The white ones specifically symbolize purity and innocence, which feels right for a mother. And I love them for Christmas because they’re elegant without being obvious. This arrangement has all the classic Christmas elements, the pine, the berries, the gold—but it’s elevated. Sophisticated.”
She looks up at me, those honey-colored eyes searching my face. “Does she sound like someone who would appreciate sophisticated?”
“Yes,” I say, because my mother absolutely would. But also because I think I’d agree to anything right now if it meant Elena kept looking at me like that, like my opinion actually matters.
“Perfect!” She beams, and I feel it like a physical thing as warmth spreads through my chest. “I’ll make this fresh for you. It’ll take me about twenty minutes if you want to browse, or you can wait on the settee. I have hot cider if you’d like some?”
Hot cider. In a flower shop. While Christmas jazz plays in the background.
This is so far removed from my normal existence I might as well be on another planet.
“I’ll wait,” I hear myself say. “Thank you.”
She gives me another one of those smiles, the kind that makes her whole face light up, and practically bounces back to her worktable. I should sit on the settee like she suggested. Instead, I find myself drifting closer to where she’s working, watching her hands as she selects stems with a critical eye.
“So,” she says without looking up, her tone conversational, “first time at Petals & Pines?”
“Yes.”
“Well, welcome. I’m Elena, the owner. And you are...?”
I hesitate for a fraction of a second. In my world, names have power. Giving mine to a stranger is rarely wise. But something about the way she asks in a casual, friendly, with no hidden agenda, manner makes me want to tell her.
“Alessandro.”
“Alessandro.” She repeats it slowly, like she’s tasting the syllables. Her pronunciation is perfect, with the proper Italian inflection. “That’s a beautiful name. Italian?”
“Yes. My family is from Naples.”
“No kidding? My grandparents are from Sicily. Russo is about as Italian as it gets.” She grins at me over a white amaryllis bloom. “Small world.”
Russo. The same surname as the family that’s been trying to muscle into my territory for the past six months. The family that made a move on one of my warehouses last week. The family I’m currently at war with.
It’s a common name, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything.
