"Ms. Reyes, this is Star Bryson with Star Brite Flowers. I'm calling to apologize for missing last Friday's consultation. We had an unexpected closure, and I'd like to reschedule Mr. Vaughn's appointment at his earliest convenience."
There's a pause. Papers shuffling. "Oh. I... actually, Mr. Vaughn went to the shop himself for that appointment. He's walking by right now — let me grab him."
"He did?—"
Too late. Her voice muffles as she turns from the phone. Then, distant and ordinary and absolutely devastating, she calls out his name.
"Liam?"
Two syllables. My heart becomes a trapped bird. The world tilts around them.
Then his voice comes on the line, that specific rough-smoke cadence, the one that murmured Starlight against my throat at three in the morning when the heat crested and I almost broke apart. "Vaughn here," he says.
"Mr.LiamVaughn?" My voice is glass. Smooth, polished, professional.
A pause. Then, quieter, “Star.”
"I'm calling from Star Brite Flowers regarding the engagement consultation that was scheduled for last Friday afternoon. I had an unexpected closure and wanted to apologize for the delay. I'd like to reschedule at your earliest convenience."
"Star, let me explain—"
"There's nothing to explain." I cut him clean. "You made your position clear when you left. I respect it. I would also like to keep your business if you're still interested, but I understand if you'd prefer another vendor."
"Star." His voice drops, rougher. "That's not—stop. Stop doing that."
"I'm not doing anything. I'm calling about an order."
"Fuck the order."
My hand tightens on the phone. "Mr. Vaughn. I'm going to send a revised consultation window to the email on file. If none of the times work, just let us know, and we'll find something that does."
He doesn't answer. I can hear him breathing. Can almost smell his scent through the phone—our scent now—which is stupid. I hang up. Paula is staring at me, the lavender stem frozen mid-twirl.
"That was him," she asks. "He'sthe one getting married?"
"Yes."
"Star."
"I need to reorganize the cooler."
She doesn't push. I didn't expect her to. Paula knows when I'm done talking, and more importantly, she knows when I'm lying about being fine. She disappears into the back, cursing all alphas under her breath.
I work for two hours without stopping. I finish the Hines order—centerpieces for a rehearsal dinner, twenty tables, low and lush and smelling like spring. Paula handles the structural assembly; I'm faster with the delicate work. We move in the rhythm we've had for four years, the one that doesn't require words. By eleven-thirty, the order is staged by the back door, and I've started pulling inventory for Saturday's wedding.
And then I hear the footsteps I've already memorized. His particular gait. Measured, precise, the sound of expensive shoes on worn linoleum. I don't look up. His scent hits next. My body registers him before my brain objects. My pulse spikes. My skin heats. The mark on my collarbone—the one he renewed during the heat—throbs.
I keep my hands steady on the eucalyptus I'm stripping. Always, the damn eucalyptus. I will ban it from this shop after him.
"We're not accepting walk-ins today," I say to the stems.
He stops a few feet behind me, close enough that his heat reaches my back. "I am not a walk-in."
"You don't have an appointment."
"I didn't need one last week."
I turn around.
