Page 38 of The Florist and Her Alphas

“We’re here,” Julian says from the front.

I scramble off August’s lap.

My dress is damp between my thighs. His pants are visibly wet, a dark patch spreading across the front, and he doesn’t care. He adjusts his dick with a casual grace that makes my face burn and follows me out of the car.

The venue is beautiful.

A converted farmhouse with exposed brick and string lights and wooden pews arranged in rows.

I am suddenly in my element.

I direct. I arrange. I place white roses in precise formations along the aisle, on the arch, at the altar. The brothers follow my orders without question. Ezra handles the heaviest arrangements. Julian arranges the reception flowers with an artist’s eye I didn’t know he had. Cole hauls water buckets. August hands me stems before I ask for them.

We finish with twelve minutes to spare.

“Oh wow, it’s so pretty,” the bride says, crying when she sees the flower arrangements. Happy tears. She hugs me, her white dress rustling, her perfume mixing with the scent of the flowers, and I hug her back, feeling mostly relieved that we got this done on time.

I’m invited to stay.

I sit in the back row and watch the ceremony through tears I didn’t expect to shed. White roses everywhere. The light through the windows turning everything gold. The bride and groom exchanging vows I can’t quite hear through the thickness in my throat.

Ezra sits beside me. He’s so close, I can feel the heat of his thigh.

“What’s the matter?” he asks quietly.

“Nothing.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my glove. “I’m just... grateful. That’s all. Without you, this wedding would have been ruined. The bride would have had no flowers. I would have failed.”

“You would have figured it out,” Ezra says. His voice is low. Certain. “We just helped. That’s all.”

I look at him. Really look at him.

His gray eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them. The scar through his eyebrow catches the light. His jaw is relaxed. He looks like a different man than the one who pushed a folder across a bakery table and offered me seventy-five thousand dollars to walk away from my life.

“I still want to thank you.”

“About the shop,” he says. “You can keep it. If that’s what you want. Or you can take the money. Your choice. Either way.”

My heart stops. Then restarts, hard and wild, beating against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“Keep it?” I whisper.

“Keep it,” he says, his face breaking into a smile. “The building is yours. The lease is yours. Marsh Florals stays open for as long as you want it open.”

I throw my arms around him.

It’s impulsive. Reckless. My body moves before my brain can catch up, and suddenly I’m pressed against Ezra Frostwood’s chest in a back pew at a stranger’s wedding, my arms around his neck, my face buried in the collar of his charcoal suit where he smells like bergamot and cold air and something deeper, warmer, that makes my pussy clench all over again.

He goes very still.

Then, slowly, his arms come around my waist. He holds me. Just holds me. His hand finds the back of my head, fingers threading through my straightened hair, and he holds me like I’m something precious.

“To hell with the money,” I whisper against his throat.

Ezra laughs. A real laugh, low and warm and surprised, and when I pull back to look at him, his gray eyes are lit from within, bright and alive in a way I’ve never seen, and the smile on his face is something I will think about for days.

“Yes, to hell with the money,” he agrees.

“Why don’t you and your brothers come to my place later so we can celebrate? It’s the least I can do to thank you,” I ask shyly, pulling back from the hug.