I finally looked at him. His jaw was tight, eyes steady on the road, but his face had opened up in a way I hadn't seen before. Soft and proud and something that looked a lot like guilt.
He reached over and took my hand, and his fingers were warm against my skin. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not knowing. For not asking. For downplaying. That wasn’t my intention. I respect your business and how you handle your shit.”
I studied his face, looking for the judgment or pity I’d learned to expect when people heard my story. But there was none of that. Just respect.
“I don’t do this because I don’t trust you to take care of me,” I said, needing him to understand. “I do this because I need to know I can take care of myself. There’s a difference.”
“I know.” And I could see in his eyes that he finally did. “I respect that. I respect you for that. I guess I was just letting you know you could rest. Chill, slow down.”
For the first time in months, I felt myself exhale. “Thank you. We’re late for the florist, and Mrs. Patterson gets nasty when people show up behind schedule.”
Why did I just dodge him? Was it really so hard to believe that he wanted to take care of me?
The flower shop was cramped and humid, filled with the overpowering scent of roses, baby’s breath, and things green and growing. I moved through the arrangements as if I was deciphering a language only I understood, inspecting each stem, each color combination, and every detail that could make or break the Morrison wedding reception.
“These roses are too open,” I told Mrs. Patterson, a thin black woman with silver hair and hands that had been working magic with flowers for longer than I’d been alive. “The wedding is Saturday. By then, these will be dropping petals all over the reception tables.”
“I can get you fresh ones Thursday morning,” she offered.
“Thursday afternoon,” I countered. “Cut fresh that day, delivered by six PM. And I want to see them before you load them in the truck. A picture is fine.”
I felt Lesley watching me negotiate, watching me stand firm on what I needed without being disrespectful. This was how I’d built my reputation, being demanding but fair, knowing what I was talking about, making sure everyone else knew it too.
“You’re good at this,” he said when we were loading the sample centerpieces into the trunk.
“I better be. I’ve been doing it long enough, and people pay me a lot of money to fuss over roses.”
“That woman was ready to do whatever you asked by the time you finished talking to her.”
“I learned early that being sweet and batting your eyelashes might get you a discount, but being smart and knowing your worth gets you respect. And respect pays better than charm ever will.”
The client lunch I had was at Chateau Trap, one of my favorite fusion steakhouses. All exposed brick and Edison-bulb lighting, with prices that made me grateful for Lesley’s connections, they were always willing to accommodate a Grimson.
“Ms. Outlaw, nice to meet you.”
I smiled and wiggled my ring finger. “Actually, it’s Mrs. Grimson now. I’ve gotten married since we last spoke.”
“Grimson... where do I know that name?”
“My husband and his family own several Smoothie King franchises.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, looking like she bought it. I hoped she did because the name could either hurt or harm me.
“Mrs. Whitman, the pleasure is all mine. Shall we?”
We sat, ordered, and began discussing her vision. Mrs. Whitman was exactly what I’d expected—old money trying to buy relevance through charity work, diamond tennis bracelet catching the light every time she lifted her wine glass.
But she was also a potential three-month income stream, and I wanted this contract. I’d been buttering her up for weeks.
“I want something elegant but approachable,” she said, leaning forward like she was sharing state secrets. “Mydaughter’s debut needs to feel exclusive without being pretentious.”
I nodded, taking notes and asking the right questions, while painting a picture of her vision and quietly steering her toward choices that would work within the timeline and budget. This was the part of my job most people didn’t see—the psychology of it, reading what clients really wanted versus what they said they wanted.
“I can give you elegant and approachable,” I said, sliding my portfolio across the table. “But I can also give you memorable. Something your daughter will still be talking about twenty years from now.”
