“Elijah.” She clutches the vase to her chest. “These are perfect. They’re absolutely perfect.”
“Told you,” Tessa says, and there’s warmth in her voice that I don’t hear often. “He’s gifted.”
I duck my head, focus on adjusting the crate. Compliments make me itchy. Always have.
“Let me get some flowers,” Sadie says, already moving toward the back cooler. “I want to see how they look together.”
She returns with an armful of red and pink blooms—roses, tulips, ranunculus with their tissue-paper petals. Her hands move quick and sure as she arranges them in the vase, tucking stems into the hollow center, adjusting angles until everything sits just right.
“The opening is perfect,” she murmurs, more to herself than us. “See how it cradles the stems? And the grain—Elijah, this grain is gorgeous.”
“Curly maple.” The words come easier when I’m talking about the work. “I chose pieces with strong figure so they’d catch the light. Three coats of oil to bring out the color.”
Sadie runs her thumb along the rim. “You can feel where you shaped it. The curve.”
“Hand-carved. Every one.” I don’t know why I’m explaining—she didn’t ask—but her appreciation makes me want to share. “Machine cutting would’ve been faster, but it doesn’t feel the same. Doesn’t hold the light the same way.”
Tessa’s quiet. When I glance over, she’s staring at the finished arrangement—wood and flowers together, the way they were always meant to be.
“The vases were beautiful before,” she says softly. “But this... this is something else.”
It is. The maple catches the light, the flowers spill over the curved edges, and the whole thing looks like something out of one of those magazines Tessa probably reads but would never admit to.
Sadie sets the vase down and looks at Tessa—really looks, the way she does when she’s about to meddle.
“Tessa.” Sadie crosses her arms. “When’s the last time you ate?”
Tessa’s scent spikes. Defensive. “I had coffee this morning.”
“Coffee isn’t food,” Sadie says.
“It has calories.”
Sadie looks at me, eyebrows raised. Backup requested.
“When?” I ask Tessa.
“When what?”
“When did you eat actual food?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her jaw tightens.
“I’ve been busy.”
That’s not an answer. We both know it.
“Elijah.” Sadie’s voice has that tone—the one she gets when she’s made up her mind. “Take her to Maeve’s. Make sure she eats something that isn’t coffee or a granola bar from her desk drawer.”
“I have work?—”
“Your work will still be there in an hour.” Sadie’s already shooing us toward the door. “Go. Eat. Consider it an order from your florist.”
Tessa looks at me, hesitation written all over her face. I can see her calculating—how long it will take, what she’s missing, whether she can argue her way out of this.
I don’t give her the chance.
“Come on.” I hold the door open. “My treat.”
