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His flattery caused a bloom of heat to rise across my face, then I wondered if he was patronizing me. Who exactly was this guy?
“Where do you work?” he asked.
The man was also a bottomless pit of questions. “I work at a florist. I have to be in at seven to take a shipment of roses. I can’t cope with a late night, so I don’t do the drinks.”
“I’m a lark too.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “Which number?” He pointed at the street we’d entered—my road.
Did I tell him or let him drop me off at the top of the road? Even though I didn’t think we’d hit it off brilliantly—I’d spilled coffee over his white shirt, after all—did I feel real antipathy toward Stefan? And what was it about his voice, the way he spoke, that intrigued me? I chewed my lip. A quick decision. Gut instinct.
“Number thirty-two. Other end. By the street light.” I waved a finger out of the window. “There.” I pointed at the red front door.
Stefan cranked the parking brake up.
“Thank you for the lift,” I said politely.
“My pleasure,” he said softly. “Let me get your stuff.”
He handed me the stand and case. The rain had stopped. We hovered on the pavement.
“You do really live nearby?” I had to know. Was it a ruse?
“Yes”—he cocked his head, gesturing over his shoulder—“Grantchester.”
Close enough. “I best… Thanks,” I said lamely.
Stefan wandered backward, his dark eyes glinting under the street light. “Goodnight, Callie.”
He articulated the words in his distinct fashion. My muscles tensed, quickened in long-forgotten places. A once familiar response. Oh, my God. It wasn’t possible. Not that simple or easy. Those kind of emotions took time to cultivate. They just didn’t happen on the pavement, on a damp night. I dashed up the front path of my little terraced house, not daring to look back.
The engine roared, drowning out my pounding heartbeat.
* * * *
I opened up the Golden Lily florist on automatic pilot. Seven o’clock. Bleary-eyed and clutching a mug of steaming coffee, I waited for the arrival of the wholesale truck and its delivery of roses.
Thankfully, I lived within walking distance. The demise of my bike hadn’t harmed my commute to the nearby shop. I’d had the companionship of Talia that morning in the kitchen. My flatmate worked at Addenbrookes Hospital as a theater nurse. It made for early starts and the occasional opportunity to catch up with my absentee cohabiter. When she wasn’t working, Talia spent most evenings with her Czech boyfriend, a PhD student. They made an odd couple. A Pole and a Czech who conversed in their common language—heavily accented English.
That morning, with the oppressive winter darkness hovering outside the kitchen window, we’d spoken in fits and starts, neither of us quite wanting to wake up and engage our minds. Talia had asked about my arm and the orchestra practice. I’d lied and said that it’d been fine—note perfect, I’d boasted.
She’d been knocking back a bowl of muesli and paused mid-spoonful, her blonde hair tied back into a meticulously neat bun. Her lips had pursed. “You liar.” Not one for sarcasm or irony, she’d shaken her head and finished demolishing her breakfast. She hadn’t exactly taken care of me during my one-armed days, but neither had she been uninterested in my welfare. I supposed I’d come too close to being an off-duty patient.
Bridget and Al, thankfully, had been kind and supportive. My bosses, co-owners of the florist, hadn’t quibbled my need to recover. The first week after my tumble, they’d let me take a few days off. After the break, when I’d appeared in my pink plaster cast, they’d given me light duties—no carrying bucketloads of flowers or cans of water.
Before joining them, I’d never realized what physically demanding work a flower shop could entail. Early shifts, making up arrangements, carrying displays in and out of the cold storage room when the shop closed. I’d fretted that they would let me go if I couldn’t pull my weight.
Bridget had wrapped an arm over my shoulder and squeezed me tightly. “Poor thing, why would we? Who would do my early morning deliveries?”
She’d chuckled, and I’d hidden a grimace. Bridget was not a morning person.
While Al managed the books, suppliers and deliveries to customers, Bridget created floral masterpieces. Weddings, funerals and anniversaries, her passion remained bouquets. I was left to do the basic floral arrangements. The bunches of flowers that passers-by impulsively bought. The husband who’d argued with his wife over breakfast picking up a dozen roses on the way home from work, or the negligent son buying carnations for his doting mother. I spotted the signs—the awkward words penned in accompanying cards—while I wrapped the stems in paper and sent my customers on their way.
The truck arrived at eight, mounted the pavement, and the Dutch driver helped me unload the trays of colorful roses into the back of the shop. By the time Bridget breezed in, he’d gone.
The advantage of a dawn start was the early finish. At three-thirty, I grabbed my handbag, waved goodbye to Al in the back room then trudged down the road in the dwindling light to my little terraced house.
Nettie was my priority. Six weeks of neglect and a heap of new music to learn. I was determined to catch up and show Stefan I could cope with his stepping-up mission. With the neighbors at work and Talia still at the hospital, I could sing out as much as I liked.
I heard a smothered bleeping over my scales as I warmed Nettie up. I hunted in my handbag until I found my mobile. A message from Debbie apologizing for
