I step back before I combust, pointing to an empty vase. “Now start with the tallest in the center.”
“I got this.” He places one dead in the middle like he is issuing a command, then adds a few more around the middle stem, in tight, concentric circles.
“Here. Let the blooms breathe,” I say, reaching around him to adjust the stems.
He inhales sharply. A small sound, but it vibrates through me like a struck note.
“You make this look easy,” he says, voice lower than usual.
“It’s not about easy,” I answer. “It’s about care.”
He turns his head slightly toward me. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“You won’t,” I say. And for a moment, we’re not talking about roses at all.
We work together in a strange kind of harmony, Griffin following every direction with an intense focus that I find incredibly endearing. When he lets himself laugh at my terrible “rose to the occasion” joke, the whole shop seems brighter.
We step back at the same time to admire the finished arrangement.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
He looks at the flowers. Then at me.
“Yes,” he says softly. “You are.”
My breath catches. The world stills. He steps closer, slow enough to stop if I wanted him to.
I do not.
He reaches up, gentle, reverent, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he moves too fast.
“Ruby…” he murmurs.
My name on his lips is spoken with fierce intensity. It unravels me.
I tilt my face up to him. His gaze flickers to my mouth. My heart thunders like it’s trying to escape my chest.
And then he kisses me.
Soft at first, testing, like he’s giving me every chance to pull away. Instead, my hands slide up his chest. His lips deepen against mine, increasingly confident, and the whole room tilts in the best possible way.
He holds me like he has been waiting too long. Like a man who doesn’t know how to let himself want something but wants me anyway.
The kiss grows, slow and hungry, his hands settling at my waist as if he’s learning me, memorizing me.
When we part, barely, his forehead rests against mine.
“That…” he says, breath unsteady, “was incredible.”
I smile and for one suspended, trembling moment, we just stand there, surrounded by the powerful scent of a room filled with roses, our hearts beating in the same dizzy rhythm.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Griffin
It’s ridiculously earlyin the morning, three days before Valentine’s Day. Given the obscene hour, my beard is untrimmed, my feet shoeless. I’m standing beside a large worktable in the front room of the inn. Ruby is across from me, humming.
Last night, Ruby said she’d be here at the crack of dawn to prep for the cotillion. It will give her enough time to get a lot done and still make it to the store by nine “for all the local lovers.” As only Ruby could, she roped me into this project.
