Page 7

Penny. She’s standing in the doorway to the back room, her body rigid, staring at Ryan. She never barks at customers. She spends most of the day dozing under the counter or in her bed, but if ever someone wants to pat her, she lets them. It’s why I’m comfortable having her in the shop. In all the time I’ve had her, she has never once objected to anyone who’s come through that door.

She must be picking up on something. Can’t blame her. This man gives me the heebie-jeebies too.

I get to my feet, rubbing at my elbow. “It’s all right,” I tell her.

She relaxes a fraction, then edges forward, low and slow, closing the distance between her and Ryan. Ryan crouches and offers her the back of his hand. She sniffs it, considers him for a long moment, then licks his knuckles.

Well. That was a quick change of heart.

Ryan scratches behind her ear. “Boy or girl?” he asks in that gravelly voice.

“Girl. Her name’s Penny.”

Her tail thumps against the tiles, then she flops onto her back and presents him with her belly as though they’re old friends. Ryan obliges, rubbing a hand over her scruffy stomach. “What breed is she?”

I’m a little thrown that last night this man didn’t have a civil word for me, and now he’s down on my shop floor making friends with my dog.

“Some sort of mix,” I say. “She’s a rescue, so I don’t know for sure. Mostly Jack Russell, I think, though I’m sure there’s a bit of miniature poodle in there somewhere.”

Wait, why am I standing here happily answering his questions?

“What do you want?” I say. The question comes out sharper than I mean it to.

Ryan’s eyes lift to mine. “That how you greet all your customers?”

Customers? Oh no. Is he here to buy flowers? Heat goes up my neck. Being rude to customers is not my style.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m just…a little tired. Can I help you with something?”

He straightens. Penny rolls upright then plonks herself on his foot.

“You do look tired,” he agrees. Charming. “Didn’t sleep well?”

I’m so surprised by the question I don’t know what to say. He knows I didn’t sleep well.

Gritting my teeth, I ignore his taunt and reply, “Is there something in particular you’re looking for? A bouquet for a special occasion, perhaps?” The sooner I serve him, the sooner he can leave.

“Flowers. For a woman. No occasion.”

I think of the woman who was curled into his side on the sofa last night. The same woman, I suspect, who later expressed her appreciation loudly and at considerable length through my ceiling.

“Any particular flowers you had in mind?”

“Not really.” He glances round the shop, and I get the distinct impression he’s already bored—of the shop, of the question, of me. “What’s your favourite flower?”

It sounds daft, given the job, but customers hardly ever ask me that. People come in with their own favourites, or a photo on their phone, or they point at whatever’s caught their eye in the window. They ask what goes with what, or what’s in season, or what won’t set their auntie off. And every so often somebody says, “You choose, you know best,” which is the nicest thing you can say to a florist. But they don’t often ask me what my favourite is.

“It changes with the season,” I say. “Just now? Parrot tulips.”

Ryan nods once, the light catching a small pale scar high on his left cheek, as well as another, finer one near his top lip. “I’ll take them, then.”

“Are you sure? It might be worth thinking about what the recipient’s fav⁠—”

“They’ll do.”

I blink. “Right. Well. Would you like them on their own, or with some other flowers through them?”

He lifts one shoulder.