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“Better?”
Oh, hell.
“Somehow worse.”
By noon, I’ve decided that the God of Wrath is surprisingly useful around a flower shop.
He can lift enormous buckets of water without spilling a drop, reach the highest shelves without a ladder, and carry six arrangements at once.
He’s also developing a deeply personal grudge against floral foam.
“This substance is an abomination,” he announces.
I glance up.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It crumbles.”
“That’s what it’s supposed to do.”
“It is weak.”
“It’s foam, Vidar. Not a warrior.”
He studies the green block in his palm.
“Then it should stop resisting me.”
I burst out laughing.
He looks pleased.
“Come here,” I tell him. “I’m going to teach you something.”
He approaches my worktable.
I hand him a handful of roses.
“We’re making a bouquet.”
“For whom?”
“Whoever buys it.”
His expression darkens.
“Another man?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Are you jealous of hypothetical flower customers?”
“Should I be?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then I am not.”
