Page 21 of The Florist and Her Alphas

I lock my door. “Don’t push it.”

We end up going to a spring street fair six blocks from my shop in a park I have walked past a hundred times and never stopped at. I had not known a fair was happening this weekend.

The smell of fried dough and grilled corn and cotton candy mingles with the salt-tang of the East River twenty yards away. A small Ferris wheel turns slowly against the blue evening sky, its lights not yet lit.

A brass band plays near the food trucks.

Kids run past with painted faces—tiger stripes, butterfly wings, glitter catching the lowering sun. Paper lanterns strung between lampposts sway in the breeze, red and gold and white, and the river beyond glints copper and gold.

Pepper, on Julian’s shoulder, is causing a sensation. Every child within thirty feet points and squeals. A young mother with a toddler on her hip approaches, phone already out.

“Can we take a photo? He’s never seen a parrot in real life.”

Julian kneels. Brings himself down to the child’s level with a grace that makes my throat tight. Julian’s pretty charming. I can see an easy, natural side to him, his smile warm and unguarded. He lets the little girl stroke Pepper’s emerald feathers while the mother snaps photos.

Pepper, predictably, says, “Hi gorgeous.”

The mother dies laughing. The child, wide-eyed, whispers it back: “Hi gorgeous.”

Pepper puffs his chest. “Pretty girl.”

Afterward, Julian buys me cotton candy. The largest size, a cloud of pink spun sugar bigger than my head.

“I haven’t eaten cotton candy since I was fourteen,” I admit, tearing off a piece. It dissolves on my tongue, pure sugar. Simple. Childish. Perfect.

He buys himself a smaller blue one, and we walk along the waterfront eating cotton candy while Pepper occasionally dive-bombs Julian’s hand, trying to steal pieces. Julian fights him off without breaking stride, swatting gently at the bird’s beak while maintaining an ongoing conversation about nothing in particular.

This feels so…normal.

My shoulders drop an inch I didn’t know they were holding.

We stop at a flower-crown stand. An artist with a folding table sells crowns made of fresh flowers and dried herbs—foxglove, lavender, baby’s breath, white roses wired together with questionable technique.

I cannot help myself. I critique her work in my head.

“What do you think of that?” Julian asks me.

“The foxglove placement is asymmetrical. The wire-wrapping is sloppy; it’ll cut the stems within an hour. The lavender is conditioned and will wilt by nightfall. The whole thing is pretty but doomed.”

He laughs. A real laugh, head thrown back, the sound carrying over the fair noises. “You’re terrifying,” he says, and he means it as a compliment.

Julian approaches the seller, buys a flower crown, and then heads towards me.

“I don’t need⁠—”

“You’re always worrying. Let go for today.” He sets the crown gently on my hair. His fingers brush my temple, the lightest contact, and my skin burns where he touched. Pepper supervises from his shoulder, making soft approving noises.

I catch my reflection in the dark window of a food truck.

Brown apron, smudge of dirt still on my cheek, flower crown slightly askew on my dark hair, cotton candy in one hand. I am smiling. I have not looked this carefree in years, and in public.

I’ve always felt safe indoors in case Magnus or his pack found me again. Being outdoors for so long is a luxury, but I’ve never felt safer.

We end up on a bench overlooking the water as the sun begins to drop. The fair noises are softer here, twenty feet down a small path away from the food trucks. Julian sits, and I gingerly sit as well, leaving a careful foot of space between us. Pepper hops down from Julian’s shoulder to the bench between us, claiming the middle territory like a tiny green landlord. He preens.

For a while, neither of us speaks. We eat our cotton candy. I watch a tugboat drift across the East River, leaving a wake of white line against the water.

Julian watches me watch the tugboat. “I’m sorry. For the meeting. The one with my brothers.”