I blink. “Oh. Oh, good,” I say, trying to recuperate. I go for funny. “Because I was starting to worry you were a tax auditor. Or a hitman. Or a worker at Lombardi’s.”
“Is that a pizzeria?”
“The funeral home.” I gesture to his dark, stiff clothes.
His brow furrows. “I’m none of the above.”
The phone rings and I shove the bouquet into his hands. “Hold this.”
He stares at the colorful ranunculus like they might explode. “What are you?—”
“Just hold them a sec.” I rush to answer the phone, juggling the call and the panic buzzing in my head. By the time I hang up, he’s still standing there, bouquet in hand, expression locked somewhere between disbelief and dismay.
“Thanks!” I take them back. “You’re a natural.”
“I’m the owner,” he says flatly.
“And I’m the manager and main investor.” I throw my arms wide above my head like a Price Is Right model presenting the grand prize.
He stares at me with one brow raised. It’s not thefirst time I’ve gotten that look. When people first meet me, they’re often confused. Fair enough.
“I create bouquets for all sorts of occasions which essentially means I invest in love.”
I can almost hear his internal systems rebooting. “Right.”
Mrs. Periwinkle appears at the door and heaven help me, her arrival is a welcome sight. Even if she has been lurking outside for the last five minutes.
“Hello, Ruby, I see you’ve met our handsome new visitor!” she chirps.
Mrs. Periwinkle is the town’s one-time self-professed matchmaker. Word is she hung up her matchmaking hat after several disastrous attempts at fixing up local singles. Seems she’s still having trouble rescinding the title.
“Yep, we’ve met,” I say, trying not to sound as freaked out as I feel. This man is here to ruin Oopsie Daisies.
As usual, Mrs. P doesn’t read the room. “What brings you to town, Mr. Renshaw? Are you planning to expand this lovely shop?”
Griffin rubs the bridge of his nose like he’s developing an allergy to small-town interference. “I’m here to assess the business, evaluate operations, and determine next steps.”
Translation: sell the shop. End of story.
But Griffin Renshaw doesn’t know me yet.
Oopsie Daisies is far more than a place of work. It’s my second home. And I’m not going down without a fight.
Chapter Nine
Griffin
Thank heavensthat bird-hatted lady took off. I can’t fathom how Aunt Clara tolerated everyone knowing her business.
Ruby is already back to fluffing a vase of roses and humming a song I don’t recognize. Even though it’s obvious she’s nervous, there’s something light and effortless about her. I watch her flit about the room, trying to figure out what the sensation is filling up my chest. I settle on heartburn. A mix of coffee on an empty stomach plus this decidedly unusual business manager with whom I’ll need to work.
I feel for the envelope in my pocket, the one Aunt Clara left with explicit instructions. A letter expressing herfinal wishes.
Griffin, my dear nephew, if you are reading this, know that I write these words with love. Oopsie Daisies has always been my pride and joy, but despite my best efforts, it isn’t turning a profit. I want you to go to Silver Pine and try to save the shop. Not only for the books or for the bottom line. But for the heart of it. Give it your all for thirty days. If it still can’t stand on its own, you’re free to walk away…
My jaw tightens. I drop the envelope back into my pocket and clear my throat. Ruby is now cutting what looks like paper hearts.
“You’re obviously busy. Can we set an appointment to speak in the morning?”
