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I hold out the bouquet.

She takes it carefully, staring at the enormous black roses.

“Gray, they’re beautiful.”

“Had to special order them.”

“Black roses?”

“Figured red would ruin my reputation.”

“God forbid anyone think you’re romantic.”

“Exactly.”

She lifts the flowers to her nose.

Then narrows her eyes.

“Wait a minute.”

“What?”

“Planning to buy me again?”

I lean against the counter.

“Depends. What’s the going rate?”

“Seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“Cheap.”

She bursts out laughing.

“Cheap?”

“Best investment I ever made.”

“That’s disgustingly sweet.”

“Don’t tell anybody.”

“Too late. Clara’s standing right behind you.”

I turn.

Sure enough, Clara Bennett is watching us with an expression that suggests she’s enjoying herself far too much.

“Well, well,” she says. “The Reaper brings flowers.”

“Clara.”

“Grim.”

“Don’t start.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”