“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I need flowers.”
“You need flowers.”
“For Jo. A thank-you. For...” He waves vaguely. “Everything.”
It’s a flimsy excuse, and we both know it. Jo doesn’t need thank-you flowersfrom her future brother-in-law. But I’m not going to call him on it, because the truth is?—
I’m glad he’s here.
That thought is terrifying, so I shove it down and focus on the flowers.
“What does Jo like?”
“Things that are...colorful?” Levi ventures. “She’s got a lot of colors at her house. Painted furniture and stuff.”
“Helpful.”
“I’m not great at this.”
“I noticed.” I move toward the cooler, and Ruffy pads along beside me—not guarding, just staying close, the way he does. My shadow with fur. “You can come in, you know. He’s decided you’re acceptable.”
“Acceptable. High praise from Ruffy.”
I pull together an arrangement—bright gerbera daisies, some orange roses, purple statice for texture. Cheerful and chaotic, like Jo herself. My hands know what to do even when the rest of me doesn’t, and I’m grateful for that. For the muscle memory of stems and scissors and ribbon, the familiar rhythm that keeps me anchored when everything else feels unsteady.
Because Levi is watching me work. I can feel itthe way you feel sunlight on the back of your neck—warm, constant, impossible to ignore. He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, and I don’t have to look up to know his eyes are tracking my hands as I trim stems and tuck blooms into place.
This is what he used to do when we were young. Sit on the counter in Mom’s shop and watch me arrange flowers for hours, chin in his hand, that lazy half-smile on his face. He said once that watching me work was like watching someone speak a language he didn’t know but wanted to learn.
I am not thinking about that. I am thinking about gerbera daisies and proper stem angles and absolutely nothing else.
“So,” Levi says. “When did you get him?”
“Yesterday.”
“Yesterday? And you already brought him to work?”
“I couldn’t leave him home alone. He just got adopted. That would be cruel.”
“So instead you brought your brand-new rescue dog to a public-facing business.”
“He’s doing great. He’s ignored every single customer so far. Very professional.”
“Very professional,” Levi repeats, glancing at Ruffy, who is in fact ignoring himcompletely now in favor of watching a fly near the window. “What a work ethic.”
I finish the arrangement and bring it to the counter. Ruffy follows, settles at my feet.
“Twenty-seven fifty,” I say.
Levi approaches. Ruffy doesn’t react—he’s moved on from his earlier assessment. Levi pulls out his wallet and puts cash on the counter.
“Keep the change,” he says.
I almost laugh. Almost. Because Levi Beckett, who once jumped off the pier at midnight on a dare, who drove his truck through a thunderstorm to bring me soup when I had the flu, who built his entire career on being fearless in front of thousands of strangers—this man just tiptoed past a dog who’s already forgotten he exists.
Something about that softens me more than it should.
