Chapter Three
Elena Harper
Florist
Only fifteen minutes to get ready, and it still turns into four outfit changes before Alessandro arrives.
This is ridiculous. I’m twenty-six years old, not some teenager getting ready for prom. But I can’t help it, there’s something about Alessandro De Luca that makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something big, terrifying and wonderful all at once.
I finally settle on dark jeans, ankle boots, and a soft burgundy sweater my best friend Mira swears makes my eyes look “like liquid gold.” I leave my hair down in loose waves, add a touch of mascara and lip gloss, and try to ignore the butterflies doing acrobatics in my stomach.
At exactly six-fifteen and I mean exactly, like he was watching the clock, there’s a knock on the shop door.
I practically trip over my own feet racing down the stairs from my apartment.
He’s standing outside in the rain, and oh my God, he looks even better than I remembered.
Black coat, charcoal suit underneath, his dark hair slightly damp from the weather.
But it’s his eyes that catch me, dark, intense, and fixed on me through the glass like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at.
I unlock the door and let him in, and immediately the shop feels smaller. Not in a bad way, just in a way that makes me hyperaware of every breath, every movement, every charged inch of space between us.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly shy.
“Hello.” His voice is rough velvet, and I feel it in places that are definitely not appropriate for a first date. “You look beautiful.”
I feel my cheeks heat. “Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. “I try.”
We stand there for a moment, looking at each other, and I realize I have no idea what happens next. I’ve been on dates before, obviously, but none of them have felt like this. Like the air itself is electric.
“So,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I was thinking about our coffee date, and I realized something.”
“Oh?” He looks concerned, like he’s bracing for me to cancel.
“Every coffee shop in the area is going to be packed on a Friday night. Loud music, no place to sit, people everywhere.” I bite my lip, second-guessing myself even as the words come out.
“Would you maybe want to come upstairs? To my apartment? I make really good coffee. And it’s quiet.
We could talk without having to shout at each other or read lips. ”
The moment the invitation leaves my mouth, I realize how it sounds. I just invited a man I barely know up to my apartment on our first date. My mother would have a heart attack. Mira would give me a lecture about stranger danger.
But Alessandro doesn’t feel like a stranger. He feels like something inevitable.
“You’re inviting me to your apartment.” He says it slowly, carefully, like he’s testing the words.
“I am. But if that’s too forward, or if you’d rather go somewhere public, I completely understand—”
“I’d love to.”
The relief that floods through me is probably disproportionate to the situation.
“Great! Okay. It’s just upstairs.” I gesture toward the back of the shop where the stairs lead up to my apartment. “Fair warning, it’s small and probably messy because I wasn’t expecting company, but—”
“Elena.” He says my name like it’s something precious. “I’m sure it’s perfect.”
Oh, I am in so much trouble.
I lock the shop door behind us and lead him through the back room, past my worktable, supplies and the industrial sink where I clean my tools, to the narrow staircase. I’m acutely aware of him behind me, his presence like heat at my back.
My apartment is exactly what you’d expect from someone who lives above a flower shop, small, cozy, and filled with plants.
There are succulents on the windowsills, a fiddle leaf fig in the corner, herbs growing in pots on the kitchen counter.
The furniture is mostly secondhand, a worn velvet couch in dusty rose, a coffee table I refinished myself, bookshelves made from reclaimed wood and filled with paperbacks and vintage vases.
String lights are draped across the exposed brick wall, and there’s a small Christmas tree in the corner I decorated with handmade ornaments and dried flowers. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine, and I love it.
Alessandro stops just inside the doorway, taking it all in. His expression is unreadable.
Oh God, he hates it. It’s too much. Too cluttered. Too—
“This is incredible,” he says quietly.
I blink. “Really?”
“Really.” He moves further into the space, and I notice how out of place he looks, all sharp lines and expensive fabric in my soft, lived-in apartment. “It’s very, you.”
“Is that a good thing?”
He looks at me, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my breath catch. “It’s a very good thing.”
Okay. Okay. I can do this. I can have a normal conversation with an incredibly attractive man in my apartment without spontaneously combusting.
“Coffee,” I say, a little too brightly. “Let me make coffee.”
I escape to the kitchen, which is really just an alcove with a stove, sink, and counter. My espresso machine, a splurge I justified because I’m Italian and good coffee is non-negotiable, sits pride of place on the counter.
“How do you take it?” I call over my shoulder.
“Black.”
Of course he does. Probably dark and bitter, like his soul.
I immediately feel bad for thinking that. He hasn’t been anything but polite and intense. Very intense.
“One black coffee coming up.” I start the machine, grateful for something to do with my hands. “I also have biscotti if you want, homemade. Well, Mira made them. She’s the baker. I’m more of a ‘kill plants and bring them back to life’ person than a ‘follow recipes’ person.”
I’m babbling. I’m definitely babbling.
“Biscotti sounds perfect.”
I chance a glance at him and find he’s taken off his coat and is standing near my bookshelf, studying the spines. He looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him, though there’s still something coiled about him. As though he’s ready to spring into action at any moment.
“You read a lot,” he observes.
“Escapism is my drug of choice.” I pull down my tin of biscotti and arrange some on a plate. “Romance, mostly. Some mystery. The occasional literary fiction when I’m feeling pretentious.”
“No judgments on the romance novels.”
“Why would there be? They’re stories about people finding love and happiness. The world could use more of that.” The espresso machine hisses, and I pour two cups. “Do you read?”
“When I have time. Mostly history. Biographies.”
“Let me guess, military strategy? Sun Tzu? Machiavelli?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Yes, actually.”
“Figures.” I hand him his coffee and gesture to the couch. “You have that whole ‘I’ve-read-The-Prince-and-taken-notes’ vibe going on.”
“Should I be offended?”
“Depends. Have you read The Prince?”
“Multiple times.”
“Then no, you should be proud. It’s very on-brand for you.” I curl up on the opposite end of the couch, tucking my feet under me. “The mysterious, intense, possibly-dangerous thing you’ve got going on.”
Alessandro sits down carefully, like he’s afraid he might break something. He takes a sip of his coffee, and I watch his eyes close briefly in appreciation.
“This is excellent.”
“I told you I made good coffee.” I’m ridiculously pleased by his reaction. “So, Alessandro De Luca. Tell me about yourself. What do you do when you’re not buying ribbon at flower shops?”
He goes still, and I realize I’ve hit on something. A nerve, maybe.
“I run an import business. De Luca Imports.” He says it smoothly, but there’s something rehearsed about it. “We deal primarily in goods from Europe.”
“That sounds vague.”
“It’s not particularly interesting.”
“Try me. I spend my days elbow-deep in dirt and flower stems. Trust me, everything sounds interesting compared to explaining the difference between ranunculus and peonies to confused customers.”
He almost smiles. “What would you like to know?”
“I don’t know. What do you import? Wine? Olive oil? Stolen artwork?”
I’m joking, obviously. But something flickers across his face, it’s there and gone so quickly I almost miss it.
“Mostly wine and specialty foods,” he says. “Some textiles. It’s very boring, I promise.”
He’s lying. Or at least not telling me the whole truth.
The smart thing would be to press him on it. To demand answers about why a man who imports wine needs to wear a gun under his jacket, yes, I noticed that when he took his coat off, the slight bulk under his left arm and why he looks at my windows as though he’s calculating exit strategies.
But I don’t want to be smart right now. I want to have coffee with a handsome man who makes my heart race and my skin feel too tight.
“Okay, boring import business guy,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. “What do you do for fun? When you’re not working?”
He looks genuinely stumped by this question.
“Fun,” he repeats, like it’s a foreign concept.
“Yeah, you know. Hobbies? Interests? Things that make you happy?”
“I work.”
“That’s not a hobby, Alessandro. That’s a lifestyle choice, and not a particularly healthy one.”
“I go to the gym.”
“Also not a hobby. That’s exercise.”
“I...” He pauses, and I can practically see him searching for an answer. “I don’t know.”
My heart does something painful in my chest. This man, this intense, mysterious, probably-dangerous man, doesn’t know what he does for fun.
“Okay, we’re going to fix that,” I declare. “Starting now. Quick, what’s your favorite color?”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t think. Just answer.”
“Green,” he says, and looks as surprised as I am. “Dark green. Like your sweater.”
Oh. Oh no. The butterflies are back and they’ve brought friends.
“Favorite food?”
“My mother’s carbonara.”
“Favorite season?”
“Fall.”
“Morning person or night person?”
“Night.”
“Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee.”
“Dogs or cats?”
“Dogs. Big ones.”