Chapter one
Star
Paula’s tuneless singing is doing its tuneless best. I picture Aretha spinning around in her grave. I let her finish the verse and send an apologetic prayer up so the Queen can get some rest.
"You’re going to scare the Harmon bride," I say, sliding behind the counter. "She's coming in at eleven. She is already reconsidering the whole thing. Don’t ambush her withRespect."
"All brides reconsider before the wedding. It's a purification ritual." Paula hands me a coffee without looking up from the tablet. "Your favorite fiancé client requested an appointment. He wants three o'clock. In person. No more emails with his assistant."
I take a long sip of the fresh brew. Close my eyes. Exhale. "He wrote 'no more emails'?"
"I am paraphrasing. He wrote, and I quote,I will arrive at three p.m. Friday. Please be available and prompt. My time is valuable." Paula turns the tablet to face me. "Our favorite Prince Charming. Goes dark for six weeks, reappears, and then micromanages what should clearly be his assistant's job. PoorJulie, by the way. You couldn’t pay me enough to work for him. He’s an asshole."
"He’s a boss. He’s used to running things his way."
"Maybe, but he doesn't runus." Paula smiles sweetly. "Shall I reply?"
"Reply with what, exactly?"
"I was thinking,Dear Mr. Vaughn, thank you for your continued patience. Star Brite Flowers charges by the hour for any private consultations that are not included in the original contract."
"We donotcharge by the hour."
"He doesn't know that."
I laugh and lift my cup in a mock salute. Paula has been with me since I opened the shop. She is five years older than me, and has an artistic eye that would make Picasso jealous. She’s also the only person I have never had to teach about inventory. She also enjoys handling my worst clients the way other women love manicures.
"Confirm three o'clock," I say. "Professional only. No barbs."
"None?"
"Paula."
"Fine. I will put the claws away." She types, then looks up. "You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"You look tiredandlike your back is bothering you."
I wipe a hand over my face. "The truck from Howard’s finally arrived at seven. So I had a lovely evening sorting flowers and putting everything into the coolers."
“Why didn’t you call me? I would have come back and helped.”
“So, we could both sit here tired and cranky? No, you work too hard as it is.” She watches me one beat longer than necessary, then drops it. That’s the reason we have worked well together for four years.
I move through the morning on autopilot. Buckets watered. The cooler swept. The wholesale order checked against the receiving slip, which is short on eucalyptus again, and I make a mental note to call the supplier. My back carries that low ache I have been pretending all morning is not what it is. My cycle is a Swiss clock, and I don't have time for it.
I have managed heats alone for years. I know the drill. Suppressants, water, a very tiring, unsexy weekend, using my favorite battery-operated toys to manage any heat that creeps past the hormone blockers. It’s not a pretty system, but it works. It has to work until I find my alpha.
The Harmon bride arrives at eleven, and I spend the first ninety minutes talking her off the ledge about peonies. By the time she leaves, she has decided she doesn’t want peonies after all, which is great because I don’t have enough, and her fiancé's mother wants hydrangeas. Everyone is happy. No bridezilla or monster-in-law drama, thank you, God.
At one p.m., Paula goes for lunch. The shop is quiet. The afternoon light slides across the wood floor and lands on the little chalk sign by the register that readsWalk-ins welcome.I pull out my phone while I fumble with the snack I forgot to eat for breakfast. One missed call. My mother. I call her back immediately because if I don't, she'll call three more times and then text Aunt Niecy that I am being distant.
"Morning, Starry." Her voice is brighter than the sun. "You eat today?"
"I am eating yogurt right now."
"Yogurt is not lunch."
