She lifted one of the sample arrangements and fitted it against the handlebars, adjusting the angle. “You’d want it slightly forward,” she said. “That way it’s visible but not obstructive.”
I watched her hands more than the flowers.
“What about wind?” I asked.
She glanced at me again, this time with a hint of challenge. “I accounted for that.” She tapped the rubber padding. “Grip without damage. And I’m anchoring in two places, not one.”
Smart.
I nodded. “You’re thorough.”
She shrugged, but I saw the pride flicker in her eyes. “I don’t like things failing in public.”
Neither did I.
She stepped back, assessing the setup, then turned to me. “You want to test it?”
I didn’t miss the way her voice dipped slightly. Not nervous. Just aware.
I took the arrangement from her carefully, our fingers brushing for the briefest second.
Electric.
I secured it the way she’d shown me, tightening the bindings, giving it a firm shake once it was set.
Solid.
“It’ll hold,” I said.
“I know.”
I looked at her then. Really looked.
She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t guarded either. Just present. Waiting for my assessment like this mattered to her beyond the paycheck.
That was when the words slipped out.
“I don’t overpay unless it matters. You’re worth every penny.”
She stilled just for a second.
Then she met my gaze head-on. “This matters?”
“Yes.”
She searched my face like she was trying to decide if I meant the work or something else entirely.
Truth was, it was both.
But I didn’t say that.
We stood there in the quiet shop, the air thick with something that wasn’t business anymore, no matter how much we pretended otherwise.
“I’ll have everything ready by Friday,” she said, breaking the moment. “I’ll need access to the bikes the night before.”
“You’ll have it.”
“No crowds,” she added. “I work better without an audience.”
