I watch him disappear into the cold room, the door swinging shut behind him. When he comes back out, his glasses are fogged up from the temperature change. He pulls them off and wipes them on the front of the pink apron, squinting slightly.
“Knox sounds… intense,” I note, taking a sip of the hot chocolate.
“He is,” Eli agrees, grabbing the piles of discarded rose stems. “But he’s a genius. He just forgets that we’re human sometimes. We’ve been talking about hiring some help. A prep cook, maybe a dishwasher. It would free us up to actually… you know, live.”
“That sounds like a smart idea. You guys work too hard.”
“So do you,” he says, tossing the stems into the compost bin. “Do you ever take a day off?”
I shrug, picking at a french fry. “Not really. There’s always something to do. And Maisie… I like to be busy. It keeps my mind quiet.”
He pauses, looking at me over the rim of his glasses. “Does it? Keep it quiet?”
I don’t answer for a moment. I think about the nightmares, the anxiety, the panic attacks. “Most of the time.”
He nods, accepting the half-truth, and goes back to work. We fall into a rhythm. I eat, directing traffic between bites, and he moves around the shop with a focused energy.
It’s strangely intimate, this domestic chore. It feels like we’ve been doing this together for years.
“So,” he says, placing a vase of tulips on a high shelf. “Do you have a favorite flower? Or is that like asking a parent to pick a favorite child?”
I laugh. “It changes. But lately, I’ve been really drawn to ranunculus. They look like roses, but more complex. Layer upon layer of petals. And they come in these incredible colors—this deep, bruised purple, or this soft, buttery yellow.”
“Ranunculus,” he repeats, testing the word. “I’ll have to remember that. What’s your least favorite?”
“Carnations. Absolutely. They smell like old soap and they last forever, which sounds like a good thing, but they just… they lack soul.”
Eli grins. “Noted. No carnations for Amber. What about Maisie? Does she have a favorite?”
“Sunflowers,” I reply instantly. “Because they’re taller than everything else. She likes the idea of looking down on people.”
He chuckles, a warm, rich sound. “She sounds like a handful.”
“She’s the best handful.” I finish the burger, crumpling the wrapper. “I’m going to save the rest of the fries for you. You must be starving.”
“I can wait until we’re done,” he says, wiping down the counter where the stems had been. “Oh, I almost forgot. I brought a box of the lemon tarts. They’re in the car. I made extra, specifically for Maisie to have for breakfast. If that’s okay? I didn’t want to assume you’d want her having sugar for breakfast, but I figured… it’s a special occasion?”
I look at him, standing there in my pink apron, worrying about my daughter’s breakfast. The lump in my throat returns, thick and sudden.
“That’s more than okay, Eli. That’s… really sweet. She’s going to lose her mind.”
“Good.” He looks pleased with himself. “I want her to like me.”
“I think the treats will work,” I assure him.
He bursts out laughing. “Are you suggesting that I’m using sweet treats to bribe your child?”
“Hey, I thought that was your go-to move. Isn’t that how you ended up here?”
“Fair point.”
We work in companionable silence for another twenty minutes. The shop transforms from a disaster zone back into a sanctuary. The floors are swept, the vases are gleaming, and the air smells fresh and floral again.
By the time he hangs the apron back up on the rack, the clock on the wall reads 1:30 a.m.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I glance at the screen. Jude.
“Hello?”
