Page 86 of The Florist and Her Alphas

LIANA

The bell over the door has barely stopped ringing before Julian turns to me in the middle of my shop, arms spread wide with a grin.

“Alpha at your service,” he says, executing a small bow. I roll my eyes, holding back a smile.

“You’re not staying if you don’t work,” I tell him, already moving toward the back room. “I’ve got nine graduation bouquets for Park Slope Prep tomorrow morning. Yellow roses, white lisianthus, blue delphinium, eucalyptus. School colors. And I’m not doing them alone.”

He claps his hands together once, the sound sharp in the quiet shop. “Born for this. Lead the way, my omega queen.”

I laugh despite myself.

We work at the zinc-topped worktable for two hours.

I show him how to strip the leaves below the waterline without stripping the stem bare. How to hold the bouquet at the binding point with your thumb and forefinger, how to angle each new stem into the spiral so the bouquet builds itself outward, perfectly balanced, from the center.

He is genuinely terrible at first.

His first attempt looks like a handful of flowers someone dropped on concrete and tried to pick up. His second attempt is worse. His face goes tight with concentration, that rare look of Julian actually focusing on something that isn’t closing a deal or making me blush, and I watch something shift behind his eyes. By the third bouquet, his are passable. By the sixth, they’re good. By the ninth, I catch him humming under his breath while he works, a low, tuneless sound I don’t recognize, his fingers moving through the stems without hesitation.

After we finish, I store the bouquets in the cooler, arrange them side by side on the top shelf, and stand back to look at them. Nine identical bouquets, perfectly balanced, half made by a man who had never touched a flower in his life until two hours ago.

“Isn’t that a beauty?” he says, also staring at our handiwork.

“You did good,” I say, smiling and shaking my head as I walk to the front door to close up shop for the night. The biometric panel beside the door is cool under my palm. The green light blinks once. The lock clicks.

I can feel Julian watching me from a few feet behind my shoulder, his heat at my back, his lemon scent curling around me. It makes my heart race every second I’m trapped with him in my little shop.

As I walk upstairs, I’m acutely, painfully aware of him on the stairs behind me. I notice each creak of his weight on the steps and how narrow the stairwell is. I suddenly envision falling and him catching me. By the time I make it to the top, my breasts are heaving from my harsh breathing, and my pussy is throbbing crazily.

In the apartment, I walk into the kitchen as he closes the door behind us. I pull the refrigerator door open and start pulling things out so I don’t have to look at him.

I grab a package of raw chicken thighs, a lemon going soft in the door, along with two cloves of garlic.

Julian comes up behind me. I can feel the warmth of his chest an inch from my back. He looks over my shoulder at the meager collection on my counter.

“I’ll cook,” he says. Easy. Light. Casual, like he’s offering to carry a bag.

I turn and stare at him. “An alpha cooking? Do you even know how?”

“I’ve been cooking since I was sixteen,” he says, already reaching past me for the garlic. “Ezra is going to deny this until the day he dies, but I’m the best cook in the pack. You’ve been making bouquets all day. You’re tired. Just sit and drink a glass of wine and watch me cook.”

“If you want to. I’m not going to stop you,” I say, giggling as I pour myself a glass of wine and watch him get to work. I hop up onto the kitchen counter beside the stove, tucking my feet up under me and wrapping both hands around the wine glass.

Julian rolls his sleeves to his elbows in one smooth motion. His forearms are lean and tanned, veins running under the skin, and I watch them as he crushes the garlic with the flat of my second-best knife in a movement so competent it makes my stomach flip.

He sears the chicken thighs in butter. The butter foams and spits. He flips them with my tongs, skin side down, and the smell that rises is immediate and amazing. The kitchen soon fills with the smell of garlic, herbs, and browning chicken. He squeezes half the lemon over them. The juice hisses against the hot pan.

I watch his forearms move while he stirs the pan and watch the way his open collar shows the line of his throat when he leans down to taste the sauce, the tendon there flexing. I watch his hands on the wooden spoon. I have not had this many uninterrupted minutes to look at Julian. Like fully admire and look at him.

He is a beautiful specimen of an alpha. Even though he’s annoying and charming, he looks super capable over the stove, making my apartment smell like a five-star restaurant.

Heat creeps into my cheeks the longer I stare at him.

My thighs press together involuntarily on the counter. I tell myself I have just gotten out of heat. My body is confused, and I probably just need a cold shower.

But I do not get off the counter.

He turns and winks at me like he knew that I was checking him out.