Page 52 of Romeo

What the hell was he doing?

Three days later, on Valentine’s Day, I was wiping down the counter at the Creamery when the bell above the door chimed.

I looked up and a delivery driver stood just inside, holding a bouquet so large it nearly hid him.

My hand froze mid-swipe when the driver glanced around before spotting me behind the counter. “Delivery for Fiona Mitchell-Steiner?”

My stomach flipped. “That’s... that’s me.”

He came toward the counter and set the bouquet of peonies and ranunculus down. The soft pink and white petals topped long stems that were wrapped in a deep green satin ribbon.

For a moment I forgot how to breathe.

“There’s a card,” the driver said, pointing toward the small envelope tucked among the flowers.

Right! A card.

My fingers shook as I pulled the envelope free.

For Ma Belle. Happy Valentine’s Day.

There was no name on the card; I didn’t need one to know who had sent them.

Sugar appeared beside me and stopped short when she saw the arrangement. “Holy shit.”

“I...” My voice failed.

She looked from the flowers to me. “Who sent those?”

Before I could answer, the bell over the door rang again, and Georgie walked in. Of course he did because this was my life.

His eyes landed on me, then moved to the flowers. His entire face changed when he asked, “What’s that?” as he headed toward us.

I looked pointedly at the enormous bouquet. “Flowers.”

“I can see that.” He came closer, his attention narrowing on the arrangement. “Who sent them?”

Sugar stepped between us before I could answer. “Georgie. Leave it alone.”

He looked at her as if she’d suggested something completely unreasonable. “Leave it alone? Some guy is sending my baby sister flowers⁠—”

“She’s eighteen,” Sugar interrupted, folding her arms. “And she’s allowed to receive flowers without you interrogating her about it.”

“I’m not interrogating⁠—”

“You are.”

Georgie’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know who sent those?”

Sugar didn’t flinch. “That’s not your business.”

“Like hell it’s not.”

“George.” Her voice sharpened, and even he seemed to realize he’d pushed far enough. Everyone in Rosewood called him Georgie. So when one of the women called him George, he knew they were serious. “I said leave it alone. Fiona doesn’t need you hovering over her like she’s a child. She’s an adult. She can handle herself.”

“Can she?”

My shoulders stiffened.