“I could have,” I say.
But I didn’t.
I hold her gaze, letting the truth show in the smallest way. Not too much. But enough.
“I wanted to come myself.”
Her lips part. Her cheeks flush again. She looks away, overwhelmed. And it should make me sit back. Give her space. Keep this simple.
It doesn’t.
Instead, something inside me settles. A possessiveness that I never expected.
I want this woman. She’s mine
She brings color into a world that’s been gray for far too long.
She clears her throat quietly and looks away.
“I—it’s late. I should lock up now.” She starts to walk away, then pauses, turns around slightly, her eyes not quite meeting mine. “You wanna um, eat that upstairs?” she asks, gesturing to the bag of food resting on the table.
My chest tightens and I could swear my heart skipped that moment. “Sure,” I mutter, playing it cool. “I’d love that.”
She nods and starts to pack up some of the arrangements, while Vanda peers up occasionally from his place behind the counter. I help to carry flower pots and dainty vases, amused at her gentle bossiness as she gives instructions. She moves around the shop with practiced ease, small, efficient motions, like she’s done thesame routine a thousand times. Soon, we’re done and she locks the front door, flip the sign, and turns off the lights.
Then Vanda and I follow her up the narrow stairs to the second floor, where the large storage space is filled with rows and rows of orchids in varying color and sizes.
I stop without meaning to.
I’ve seen plenty of things in my life—expensive things, rare things, dangerous things…but this?
This feels peaceful.
“This yours?” I ask.
She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Most people think orchids are difficult, but once you understand what each one needs, they thrive.”
I walk closer, hands behind my back, careful not to touch anything. There are delicate purple blooms with speckled centers, bright white ones shaped like stars, and tall, cascading pink varieties that look like falling petals.
“It’s impressive,” I say honestly.
Her eyes soften. “You really think so?”
“I do.”
She moves to a large cluster of vivid violet orchids, the petals open wide and bright like little bursts of color.
“This one is called Vanda,” she says, brushing one petal with the back of her finger as she flashes her dog a fond smile. “They’re rare. Beautiful. Sensitive. Won’t thrive in the wrong environment. It’s why I named Vanda after her.”
I look at her then—really look at the stray strand of hair that keeps falling forward, her gorgeous hazel eyes glowing with pride and warmth, and her slightly flushed cheeks.
My lepestok.
She doesn’t even realize how much life she carries with her…how much softness and color.
“How many types do you have here?” I ask, though I don’t usually ask pointless questions. But she makes it easy.
“A lot,” she laughs nervously. “I, um—a lot.”
