“Actually,” I say, and then stop because I realize I have no idea how to finish that sentence.
I came here to see you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you for two days. I’ve been acting like a lovesick teenager and it’s making my second-in-command question my sanity.
None of these seem like good options.
“Ribbon,” I finally say.
She blinks. “Ribbon?”
“Yes. I need ribbon. For wrapping gifts.”
Jesus Christ. Marco was right. I have lost my mind.
But Elena just smiles, apparently finding nothing strange about a man in a three-thousand-dollar suit coming to a flower shop to buy ribbon.
“Oh, how thoughtful! Are you a wrapper or do you usually pay people to do it?” She’s already walking toward the back of the shop, and I follow like a moth to a flame. “I have to admit, I’mterrible at wrapping. I always use too much tape and the corners never fold right. But ribbon—ribbon I can do.”
She leads me to a section I didn’t notice before, where spools of ribbon in every color imaginable hang from an old wooden rack. There must be fifty different options, from thin satin to thick velvet, in patterns ranging from solid colors to plaids to designs with tiny Christmas trees.
“What’s your style?” She pulls down a spool of deep burgundy velvet. “Classic? Modern? Rustic?”
I look at the ribbon, then at her, then back at the ribbon.
I have no fucking clue.
“Classic,” I say, because it’s worked before.
“Mmm.” She studies me for a moment, her head tilted to one side. “Actually, I think you’re more of a deep green person. Or maybe navy. Something rich and elegant but not obvious.” She pulls down a spool of forest green velvet that matches her sweater. “Like this. It’s sophisticated without being boring.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Don’t you want to know how much it is?”
“I’ll take it,” I repeat.
She laughs, it’s a musical sound that does things to my chest. “Okay, big spender. How much do you need? I can cut you however many yards you want.”
“Three yards,” I say, pulling a number out of thin air.
“Three yards. Perfect.” She pulls out scissors and starts measuring, humming along to the Christmas music playing in the background. Today it’s “Let It Snow,” and somehow she makes even that cheerful.
I should say something. Make conversation. This is what normal people do, they talk.
“So,” I start, then stop.
She looks up, waiting.
“You’ve owned this shop for two years?” It comes out more like an interrogation than casual conversation. Smooth, Alessandro. Real smooth.
But she doesn’t seem bothered. “Two and a half, actually. Opened in June three years ago. It was just a dream for a long time, but then I got a small business loan and found this space and...” She gestures around at the shop with obvious pride. “Here we are.”
“It’s impressive.” And I mean it. Building something from nothing, creating this warm and beautiful space, it takes courage and vision. “Did you always want to own a flower shop?”
“Since I was a kid.” She starts cutting the ribbon, her movements precise. “My nonna, my grandmother, had the most amazing garden. Roses, peonies, herbs, vegetables. She taught me that growing things was a way of putting beauty into the world. And I thought, why not make a living doing that?”
“Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman.”
“She was.” Past tense. Something flickers across Elena’s face, grief, maybe, but softened by time. “She passed away five years ago. I think she would have loved this place.”
