I don’t mention Maisie’s debate fees. I don’t mention the pit of anxiety in my stomach every time I check my bank account.
I don’t want him to think I’m looking for a handout.
“What’s your plan?” he asks.
“I’m going to work from here and Wren’s bakery until the stock is sold off. We’re doing a clearance sale next week. Once the flowers are gone, I’ll… I don’t know. Pick up shifts at the Smokehouse? Maybe see if the grocery store needs a cashier. I’ll figure it out.”
I say it with more confidence than I feel. The truth is, the prospect of job hunting while raising a nine-year-old on my own is daunting.
I’m tired. I’m so tired of scrambling.
Eli nods slowly, finishing his croissant. He wipes his hands on a napkin, looking thoughtful.
“You know,” he starts, his tone casual, but his eyes fixed intently on mine. “We still haven’t found a dishwasher. Or a prep cook. We’ve interviewed, like, ten people, and Knox has scared off nine of them. The tenth one stole a steak knife.”
I let out a small laugh. “Okay?”
“I’m just saying… we need help. Badly. Fallon is closing every night, and I’m running myself ragged trying to manage the pastry station and the prep work.” He shifts, turning his body toward me. “Is that something you’d be into? Just to help out? Until the shop reopens, or until we find a competent employee. Whichever happens first.”
I blink at him, my croissant forgotten in my hand. “Are you serious? You want to hire me?”
“I do.” He smiles, a crooked, charming thing. “You know how to work hard. You’re not afraid of early mornings. And frankly, I’d like having you around. It would solve my problem and yours.”
I stare at him, my mind racing. It’s the perfect solution. It’s money. It’s stability. It’s him. But the practical side of me, the side that has learned to be wary of mixing business with pleasure, hesitates.
“Eli… I work for you. We’re… whatever this is.” I gesture between us. “Is that a good idea? I don’t want to distract you.”
“You wouldn’t,” he dismisses. “And yes, it might be hard to keep my hands off you when you’re wearing an apron and chopping onions, but…” He winks. “I think I can control myself. I’m a professional.”
I feel a flush rising up my neck. Heat pools in my belly at the thought of him watching me work, wanting me but waiting until the shift is over.
“See?” He laughs, nudging my knee with his. “I’m joking. Sort of. But mostly, I’m serious about the job. We can keep everything on hold. No expectations. If you want to keep this thing between us strictly separate from work, I respect that. I just want to help.”
I look at him, this beautiful, ridiculous man who just offered me a lifeline. He’s not just helping me; he’s making sure I don’t have to scramble. He’s giving me dignity.
He’s perfect. He’s helpful, and kind, and he sees me.
I don’t think. I just move.
I set the croissant down and climb into his lap. It’s awkward on the hard floor, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He catches me instantly, his hands settling on my hips to steady me.
“Amber?”
“Thank you,” I whisper, and then I kiss him.
It’s a slow, deep kiss, full of gratitude and something else. Something that feels dangerously like love. I pour everything I can’t say into it—my relief, my attraction, my confusion.
He groans against my mouth, his arms tightening around my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.
“You don’t have to keep thanking me,” he murmurs against my lips.
I break the kiss, pressing my face into the curve of his neck. He smells like sugar and that unique scent that is justEli. I bury my nose against his skin, breathing him in.
He pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around my back, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head. He holds me, rocking us slightly, right there on the floor of the flower shop.
I let myself be held.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
