Chapter Two
Alessandro
Only thirty-six hours go by before I’m right back outside Petals & Pines.
Thirty-six hours of trying to convince myself that walking into her flower shop was a mistake. Elena Harper is a distraction I can’t afford. The way her honey-colored eyes lit up when she smiled at me means absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of my carefully ordered, violently maintained world.
Thirty-six hours of failing spectacularly at all of the above.
“Boss,” Marco says from beside me, his tone carefully neutral in the way that means he thinks I’ve lost my mind. “You want to tell me why we’re parked outside a flower shop on a Thursday afternoon?”
“No,” I say, not taking my eyes off the storefront.
Through the frosted glass, I can see movement, Elena, probably, arranging flowers or helping a customer. The Christmas lights are on even though it’s barely past noon, giving the whole shop a warm, inviting glow that stands in stark contrast to the gray December drizzle falling around us.
“Right. Okay. So we’re just, sitting here.”
“Surveillance,” I tell him.
“Surveillance.” Marco doesn’t even try to hide his skepticism. “Of a flower shop.”
“The area,” I correct. “After Greco was spotted here two days ago, we need to ensure there are no additional threats in the vicinity.”
It’s not entirely bullshit. Greco being this close to my usual routes is concerning. The fact he was two blocks from a place I’d just been is either a terrible coincidence or a calculated move on his part.
The fact that said place happens to be the flower shop owned by a woman I can’t stop thinking about is just, unfortunate timing.
“Uh-huh.” Marco pulls out his phone, tapping away at something. “And the surveillance we’ve had on this street for the past two days wasn’t enough?”
Damn it. I’d forgotten he’d see those orders.
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re being something,” he mutters, but wisely doesn’t push further.
The truth is, I’ve read every report that’s come in about this street.
Every person who’s walked past Petals & Pines.
Every delivery truck that’s stopped. Every customer who’s gone in or out.
I know Elena opens at nine, takes her lunch break around one (usually a sandwich from the deli three doors down), and closes at six.
I know she had seventeen customers yesterday and twenty-three the day before.
I know she lives alone in the apartment above the shop and she hasn’t had any visitors except for a blonde woman who appears to be a friend.
I know all of this, and it still isn’t enough.
Which is how I find myself opening the car door and stepping out into the rain.
“Wait, we’re going in?” Marco scrambles out after me. “Boss, what’s the play here?”
Good question. I have no idea.
“Stay with the car,” I tell him. “Keep your eyes open.”
“For what?”
“Anything unusual.”
Marco looks around at the perfectly ordinary downtown Seattle street, people walking past with umbrellas, cars splashing through puddles, a guy standing under an awning across the street smoking a cigarette.
“Right. Unusual. Got it.”
I ignore his tone and head for the shop, my heart doing something uncomfortably erratic in my chest. This is absurd. I’ve walked into hostile negotiations with Russian arms dealers and felt calmer than I do right now.
The bell chimes as I push through the door, and I’m hit with that same sensory overload as before, pine and cinnamon, warm light, explosions of color everywhere I look. And then I see her.
Elena is helping an elderly woman select roses, her hands gentle as she wraps the stems in brown paper.
She’s wearing jeans and a forest green sweater today, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that makes her look impossibly young.
When she laughs at something the customer says, a dimple appears in her left cheek.
My chest does something painful.
She hasn’t seen me yet, so I take the opportunity to look around, pretending I’m browsing.
The shop looks different in the daylight, somehow even more magical, if that’s possible.
There are new arrangements since I was here last, including a stunning display of white and red flowers in the window I’m certain wasn’t there before.
“I think your grandson will love them,” Elena is saying to the elderly woman. “Roses are classic for a reason.”
“You’re such a dear. Thank you, sweetie.” The woman pays and leaves, the bell chiming behind her.
And then Elena turns, and her eyes find mine.
For a second, she just stares. Then her entire face lights up with a smile so bright it should probably come with a warning label.
“Alessandro! You came back!”
She sounds genuinely happy to see me. Not politely customer-service happy. Actually happy.
I’m so fucked.
“Hello, Elena.”
“Did the arrangement arrive okay? Was your mother pleased?” She’s already moving out from behind the counter, and I notice she’s wearing the same worn boots as before. Something about that detail pleases me more than it should.
“It hasn’t arrived yet,” I say, which is true. I had it scheduled for delivery tomorrow because I’m not ready to answer my mother’s inevitable questions about where I found such an exquisite arrangement. “But I’m sure she’ll love it.”
“Oh good! I was a little nervous, you know, first time making something for a customer without knowing their exact preferences.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and I notice she has small silver hoops in addition to the studs she was wearing before.
“What brings you back? More flowers for your mom? Or maybe for someone else?”
There’s something in her tone, not quite flirtatious, but curious. Interested.
“Actually,” I say, and then stop because I realize I have no idea how to finish that sentence.
I came here to see you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you for two days. I’ve been acting like a lovesick teenager and it’s making my second-in-command question my sanity.
None of these seem like good options.
“Ribbon,” I finally say.
She blinks. “Ribbon?”
“Yes. I need ribbon. For wrapping gifts.”
Jesus Christ. Marco was right. I have lost my mind.
But Elena just smiles, apparently finding nothing strange about a man in a three-thousand-dollar suit coming to a flower shop to buy ribbon.
“Oh, how thoughtful! Are you a wrapper or do you usually pay people to do it?” She’s already walking toward the back of the shop, and I follow like a moth to a flame.
“I have to admit, I’m terrible at wrapping.
I always use too much tape and the corners never fold right. But ribbon—ribbon I can do.”
She leads me to a section I didn’t notice before, where spools of ribbon in every color imaginable hang from an old wooden rack. There must be fifty different options, from thin satin to thick velvet, in patterns ranging from solid colors to plaids to designs with tiny Christmas trees.
“What’s your style?” She pulls down a spool of deep burgundy velvet. “Classic? Modern? Rustic?”
I look at the ribbon, then at her, then back at the ribbon.
I have no fucking clue.
“Classic,” I say, because it’s worked before.
“Mmm.” She studies me for a moment, her head tilted to one side.
“Actually, I think you’re more of a deep green person.
Or maybe navy. Something rich and elegant but not obvious.
” She pulls down a spool of forest green velvet that matches her sweater.
“Like this. It’s sophisticated without being boring. ”
“I’ll take it.”
“Don’t you want to know how much it is?”
“I’ll take it,” I repeat.
She laughs, it’s a musical sound that does things to my chest. “Okay, big spender. How much do you need? I can cut you however many yards you want.”
“Three yards,” I say, pulling a number out of thin air.
“Three yards. Perfect.” She pulls out scissors and starts measuring, humming along to the Christmas music playing in the background. Today it’s “Let It Snow,” and somehow she makes even that cheerful.
I should say something. Make conversation. This is what normal people do, they talk.
“So,” I start, then stop.
She looks up, waiting.
“You’ve owned this shop for two years?” It comes out more like an interrogation than casual conversation. Smooth, Alessandro. Real smooth.
But she doesn’t seem bothered. “Two and a half, actually. Opened in June three years ago. It was just a dream for a long time, but then I got a small business loan and found this space and...” She gestures around at the shop with obvious pride. “Here we are.”
“It’s impressive.” And I mean it. Building something from nothing, creating this warm and beautiful space, it takes courage and vision. “Did you always want to own a flower shop?”
“Since I was a kid.” She starts cutting the ribbon, her movements precise. “My nonna, my grandmother, had the most amazing garden. Roses, peonies, herbs, vegetables. She taught me that growing things was a way of putting beauty into the world. And I thought, why not make a living doing that?”
“Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman.”
“She was.” Past tense. Something flickers across Elena’s face, grief, maybe, but softened by time. “She passed away five years ago. I think she would have loved this place.”
“I’m sure she would have.”
We fall into silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. She finishes cutting the ribbon and rolls it carefully, securing it with a small piece of tape.
“There you go. Three yards of sophisticated not-boring forest green ribbon.” She hands it to me, and our fingers brush. The same electric jolt I felt before shoots through me.
She feels it too, I can tell by the way her eyes widen slightly, the way her cheeks flush.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“Of course.” She clears her throat, looking away. “Will that be all?”
No. I want to stay here forever, listening to you talk about your grandmother’s garden and watching the way your eyes light up when you smile.
“Yes,” I say instead.