“I’m sure she would have.”
We fall into silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. She finishes cutting the ribbon and rolls it carefully, securing it with a small piece of tape.
“There you go. Three yards of sophisticated not-boring forest green ribbon.” She hands it to me, and our fingers brush. The same electric jolt I felt before shoots through me.
She feels it too, I can tell by the way her eyes widen slightly, the way her cheeks flush.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“Of course.” She clears her throat, looking away. “Will that be all?”
No. I want to stay here forever, listening to you talk about your grandmother’s garden and watching the way your eyes light up when you smile.
“Yes,” I say instead.
We walk back to the register, and I pull out my wallet. She rings me up, the ribbon costs twelve dollars, which is probably the least expensive purchase I’ve made in years, and I hand her a hundred-dollar bill.
“Oh, I’ll need to get change—”
“Keep it.”
“Alessandro, I can’t—”
“Consider it a tip. For excellent customer service.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped. But then she smiles, shaking her head.
“You know, you’re a very strange man.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
“Strange in a good way,” she clarifies. “Most people don’t tip their florist. Or buy ribbon at flower shops. Or show up looking like they’re about to close a billion-dollar deal just to browse.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” she says softly, studying me with those honey-colored eyes. “You’re really not.”
The moment stretches between us, loaded with something I can’t quite name but can definitely feel. Outside, the rain has picked up, drumming against the windows. The Christmas lights cast shadows that dance across her face, and I find myself leaning slightly forward, drawn to her like gravity.
The bell above the door chimes.
We both jump, the spell broken. A young couple enters, laughing and shaking rain from their coats, and Elena immediately shifts into professional mode.
“Welcome to Petals & Pines! Let me know if you need any help.”
She glances back at me, and I see something in her expression, regret, maybe? Or disappointment the moment was interrupted.
I should leave. Let her help her customers. Go back to my car where Marco is undoubtedly having a field day with whatever conclusions he’s drawing.
But I don’t want to.
“Elena,” I say quietly, and she turns back to me. “Would you like to have coffee sometime?”
The words are out before I can stop them. Before I can think about all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Before I can remember men like me don’t date women like her.
She blinks, clearly surprised. “Coffee?”
“Or tea. Or lunch. Whatever you prefer.” I’m making this worse. “I just thought, we could talk. Get to know each other. If you’re interested.”
