I start opening my mouth, but then decide this is probably one of those conversations where the best thing to do is smile and nod.
When she leaves, I flip the sign on the door of Wildflower & Vine from "Open" to "Closed" and stand there for a second, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.
Saturday. End of the day. Buckets of ranunculus and anemones line the back wall, the walk-in cooler hums its low, steady note, and the worktable is covered in ribbon scraps and stem clippings from the twenty-three luxury floral wedding arrangements I did this week.
Twenty-three.
Six months ago, I was doing eleven simpler arrangements a week tops and calling it busy.
I catch my reflection in the glass door. My hair's in the bun I started the morning with, though several pieces have staged a revolt. There's a smudge of pollen on my jaw and a leaf stuck to my apron. I look like someone who's been doing the thing she loves for six hours straight, and I love it.
And where the neckline of my shirt dips are three marks. They healed months ago but I still touch them sometimes without thinking about it. Like checking your pocket for your keys when you already know they're there.
The bell above the door chimes, and Arthur walks in carrying a flat white box, looking like a man who has never once in his life doubted whether he should enter a room.
"These are for you," he says.
He sets the box on the counter and flips it open. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, are six miniature tartlets—raspberry, pistachio, lemon—each one decorated with a tiny fondant wildflower.
"Maren's new line," he says, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, grinning. "Brought to you bydrumrollMaren herself. She says to tell you to not hesitate if you have notes."
I bite into the raspberry one and the flavor hits like a small, precise miracle. It's tart and sweet, the pastry shattering exactly the way it should.
I let out a long, deeply satisfied sigh. "God, that's good."
I look from the delicate fondant wildflower in my hand to the massive buckets of real wildflowers lining my walls, and a quiet wave of disbelief washes over me. Six months into my partnership with Beaumont Patisserie, and it still catches me off guard sometimes just how perfectly the pieces fell into place.
When Dorian Beaumont's corporate team finally reached out to officially discuss their luxury wedding catering division, Imade sure to invite them over to see my work. Dorian Beaumont himself walked into my shop and stood there for two hours, looking at my physical portfolio, watching me build a cascading bridal arrangement from absolute scratch. Three days later, they sent over an exclusive contract that tripled my revenue and permanently killed my debt.
"Well, I'll make sure to give Maren my most glowing feedback," I say, slowly licking a smudge of raspberry pastry cream off my thumb.
Arthur’s eyes track the movement of my tongue, his gaze darkening instantly.
The bell chimes again, breaking the tension, and Knox walks in carrying a cardboard tray with four iced coffees. He sets them down and carefully rotates one so the straw is facing me.
"Maren made those?" Knox asks, eyeing the tartlets.
"'Tis indeed her handiwork," I reply with a smile.
The bell chimes a third time and Mason fills the doorframe, bringing the deep, grounding scent of cedar with him and heavy brown paper bags.
"Brought food," he announces.
"What kind of food?" Arthur asks.
"Tacos. Straight from Carlos." Mason sets the bags on the counter and looks at me. His hand finds the back of my neck, warm and rough, pulling me in so he can press a firm kiss to my forehead. "Hey."
"Hey." My stomach does that familiar, swooping thing it still does every single time he touches me.
"Good day?" he rumbles.
"The best." I lean into his hand for just a moment, letting the warmth of his palm settle through me.
Knox is already clearing the main worktable, sweeping the ribbon scraps and stem clippings into the compost bin with the smooth efficiency of an alpha who is quite used to doing it.Because somewhere in the last six months, Saturday dinner at the flower shop just became our thing. Arthur started showing up right after his early shift at the bar. Knox would appear with drinks. Mason would bring food.
Arthur wipes the table down with a damp cloth while Mason pulls the stools into a loose circle. Knox sets out the tacos, the coffees, the tartlets, and we sit.
Arthur immediately launches into a story about Old Bill coming into the bar this morning. "So, he decided it was a brilliant idea to bring Clementine along," Arthur says, gesturing with his coffee cup. "He sat her right on a barstool and requested that I craft a signature cocktail that visually represents her."
