Page 36 of The Florist and Her Alphas

“You’re...” He gestures at all of me. The dress. The hair. The heels. The gloves. “What’s going on? Did you know I was coming here?”

“I’m busy,” I say, but my voice comes out softer than I mean it to, and I’m blushing, and I hate that I’m blushing, and I turn back to the roses because looking at Julian in a navy shirt with his hairy forearms bare is not going to get these bouquets made.

“You look beautiful,” he says. Simple. Direct.

“Thank you,” I whisper to the roses.

The bell rings again.

I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. I can feel him.

The air in the shop changes, goes cold and charged, like the moment before lightning. My skin prickles. My nipples tighten against the fabric of my dress. My pussy is already wet. Slick gathers between my thighs with an urgency, knowing that the main alpha and oldest brother has just walked in.

“Ms. Marsh.”

Ezra Frostwood’s voice. Low. Steady. The kind of voice that could freeze an omega with the compulsion behind it.

I turn. Slowly. The white rose is still in my gloved hand, pressed against my chest like a shield.

He’s wearing black. Charcoal suit, white shirt, no tie, the top button open. His pale gray eyes find mine across the shop and hold. His jaw is tight. His shoulders are rigid under the expensive wool.

August walks in behind him. Cole follows last.

My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat.

“What do you want?” I ask, forcing myself to be strong and make sure my voice doesn’t tremble. I have to show him that I’m not scared or intimidated, even though deep down I am.

Ezra swallows. I’ve never seen Ezra nervous. I didn’t know he could be nervous. He looks at my arms. My sleeves are long, covering everything from wrist to elbow.

Cole must have told his brothers. Ezra knows. He’s standing in my shop looking at my covered arms like he’s trying to see through the fabric to the marks beneath, and the pity in his eyes makes my chest go tight with something hot and defensive.

“Have you thought about the offer?” Ezra asks. His voice is quieter than I’ve ever heard it.

“No,” I say. “I’m not even considering it. I’m…” My voice cracks. I am not going to cry in front of four alphas. I don’t want that kind of pressure right now. “I’m in a rush right now. I have a wedding. In an hour. Probably less now.”

“What needs to happen?” he asks. Concern. Genuine concern in that ice-cold voice.

“I need to trim these roses. Color-code them. Make twelve bouquets. Haul everything to the venue on my bike, which is insane, and set up before the bride has a panic attack.” The words come out in a rush. My eyes are burning. “It’s a lot. Don’t worry about it.”

Ezra steps forward. He takes my hand. His fingers are warm through the glove, his grip firm but careful, like he’s holding something fragile. “How can I help?”

I stare at him. “What?”

“Tell me what to do.” His gray eyes are steady on mine. “We’ll help.”

“We have a car,” Julian says from the doorway. “We can drive everything. Consider it done.”

Ten minutes later, four powerful, wealthy men are standing amid buckets of white roses, and I am giving orders while they follow them.

Ezra at the workbench, his charcoal sleeves rolled to his elbows, his large hands surprisingly gentle with the stems. Julian sorting roses by shade, making piles of cream and ivory and snow-white with the focused intensity of a man arranging flowers for the first time in his life. Cole hauling buckets to the door without being asked. August wrapping finished bouquets in kraft paper, his fingers careful around the delicate stems.

My chest feels tight. I don’t know what to do with this.

Twenty minutes later, the brothers are loading the last of the bouquets into the back of an expensive-looking black SUV.

I lock the shop and climb into the back seat between August and Cole, my red dress riding up my thighs, my heels clicking against the floor mat.

The car smells like pure alpha males.