Chapter 3 Star
Chapter three
Star
The shop is a mash-up of roses, freesias, lilac, peonies and our latest fresh-from-the-market deliveries.
The flowers are fresh. I am not. If I had a scent of my own, it would be trampled wet stems after a drenching rain; nobody survived.
But I don't. I have his. His aroma lingers, seeping from my pores.
That's how deep he imprinted himself on me. Before he left.
I change the water in the front display. Trim two inches off the ranunculus. Reprice the dried bundles by the register because I forgot to do it last week, and now I'm doing it with a little too much force, snapping the price gun harder than the cardstock can handle.
Paula watches me from the worktable.
She's been watching me since she unlocked the back door at seven-fifteen, set down her coffee, looked at my face, and did not say a single word for forty-five minutes.
That is a record. Paula does not do silence.
She does commentary. She does running observations and unsolicited opinions, and the kind of teasing that has been her primary love language since we met.
The silence lasted until I started in on the eucalyptus.
A plant I'm only now discovering how much I hate.
Despise each and every stem that was a witness and kept its mouth shut.
"So," she says.
"No."
"I haven't said anything."
"You're about to," I snap.
She picks up a stem of dried lavender and turns it in her fingers. "I'm just going to say—you look like a woman who spent her whole long weekend in heat with an alpha, but now it's over."
I squeeze the price gun. The mechanism clicks without firing. Another betrayal. I set it down. "Paula."
"You also look like a woman who is irritated about that fact." She tilts her head. "Which, honestly? I get it. It's annoying when they get all in their heads about bonding."
I don't answer. I go back to the eucalyptus. Snip the stem. Drop it in the bucket.
"Star." Her voice shifts. Softer. "What happened?"
"You already guessed." I keep my eyes on the flowers. "We bonded. He decided he doesn't want a mate. Can't have one, he said. And then it was over."
"Okay," she drawls, turning the syllables over like a puzzle piece she's trying to make fit. I wish her luck. Because I haven't had any.
She comes around the worktable. Doesn't touch me, just stands close. "Did he say he was coming back?"
"No." I finally look at her. "He left Monday night after my last heat. Haven't heard from him since."
Paula's expression goes carefully neutral. "Ah."
"Yeah. Ah."
"What did he say. When he left."
I almost don't answer. The story he gave me lives in a soft place in my chest where I've been keeping it warm. Turning it over. Trying to make it make sense.
"His mother died of cancer when he was twelve," I say. "His father fell apart. Watched the whole man disappear. Liam decided, at freaking twelve that bonding was a death sentence."
Paula doesn't move. Doesn't interrupt.
"He told me he couldn't give me more than the heat. He was clear. I went into it eyes open." My voice is steady. That it's so steady should make me feel better. It doesn't. "He explained himself. I almost—" I stop. Try again. "I almost made my peace with it."
"Almost?"
"Almost."
She waits. I wait. She breaks first, changing the subject. "So you called me Friday," she says. "Told me the heat was worse than usual, that we'd reopen Tuesday. I said okay. I didn't ask questions. But now I'm asking, did you do any work at the shop? Follow up about the order?"
The Vaughn engagement order. Centerpieces for twelve tables, a ceremony arch, a welcome arrangement. The consultation was on Friday. Dammit, I never called to reschedule. Never sent an email. The order form is still under the register where I shoved it while I was waiting.
"I need to call them," I say.
Paula raises an eyebrow. "They're assholes. If you haven't heard from them, I wouldn't say anything. Let them reach out again. Probably busy menacing other suppliers."
I pull the form out from under the register.
Vaughn Engagement — Vaughn Capital, LLC.
I stare at the letterhead. At the contact name on the order — Julia Reyes, Executive Assistant. Julie, who Paula says should be sainted for working for Mr. Vaughn. Weird that he didn't show up. Assholes always follow through.
I dial the main line on the letterhead before I overthink it. A professional voice picks up on the second ring. "Vaughn Capital, Julia Reyes speaking."
"Ms. Reyes, this is Star Bryson with Star Brite Flowers. I'm calling to apologize for missing last Friday's consultation. We had an unexpected closure, and I'd like to reschedule Mr. Vaughn's appointment at his earliest convenience."
There's a pause. Papers shuffling. "Oh. I... actually, Mr. Vaughn went to the shop himself for that appointment. He's walking by right now — let me grab him."
"He did?—"
Too late. Her voice muffles as she turns from the phone. Then, distant and ordinary and absolutely devastating, she calls out his name.
"Liam?"
Two syllables. My heart becomes a trapped bird. The world tilts around them.
Then his voice comes on the line, that specific rough-smoke cadence, the one that murmured Starlight against my throat at three in the morning when the heat crested and I almost broke apart. "Vaughn here," he says.
"Mr. Liam Vaughn?" My voice is glass. Smooth, polished, professional.
A pause. Then, quieter, “Star.”
"I'm calling from Star Brite Flowers regarding the engagement consultation that was scheduled for last Friday afternoon. I had an unexpected closure and wanted to apologize for the delay. I'd like to reschedule at your earliest convenience."
"Star, let me explain—"
"There's nothing to explain." I cut him clean. "You made your position clear when you left. I respect it. I would also like to keep your business if you're still interested, but I understand if you'd prefer another vendor."
"Star." His voice drops, rougher. "That's not—stop. Stop doing that."
"I'm not doing anything. I'm calling about an order."
"Fuck the order."
My hand tightens on the phone. "Mr. Vaughn. I'm going to send a revised consultation window to the email on file. If none of the times work, just let us know, and we'll find something that does."
He doesn't answer. I can hear him breathing. Can almost smell his scent through the phone—our scent now—which is stupid. I hang up. Paula is staring at me, the lavender stem frozen mid-twirl.
"That was him," she asks. "He's the one getting married?"
"Yes."
"Star."
"I need to reorganize the cooler."
She doesn't push. I didn't expect her to. Paula knows when I'm done talking, and more importantly, she knows when I'm lying about being fine. She disappears into the back, cursing all alphas under her breath.
I work for two hours without stopping. I finish the Hines order—centerpieces for a rehearsal dinner, twenty tables, low and lush and smelling like spring.
Paula handles the structural assembly; I'm faster with the delicate work.
We move in the rhythm we've had for four years, the one that doesn't require words.
By eleven-thirty, the order is staged by the back door, and I've started pulling inventory for Saturday's wedding.
And then I hear the footsteps I've already memorized.
His particular gait. Measured, precise, the sound of expensive shoes on worn linoleum.
I don't look up. His scent hits next. My body registers him before my brain objects.
My pulse spikes. My skin heats. The mark on my collarbone—the one he renewed during the heat—throbs.
I keep my hands steady on the eucalyptus I'm stripping. Always, the damn eucalyptus. I will ban it from this shop after him.
"We're not accepting walk-ins today," I say to the stems.
He stops a few feet behind me, close enough that his heat reaches my back. "I am not a walk-in."
"You don't have an appointment."
"I didn't need one last week."
I turn around.
He's in a suit—charcoal gray, all clean lines.
The fabric adores his body. So do I. Hate is not a strong enough veil to cover how good he looks.
His jaw is tight. There are faint shadows under his eyes, and he is looking at me with an expression I can't begin to read.
Just last night, he was naked, inside me, murmuring things I had no reason not to believe.
But not promises. I have to give him that. He never promised a damn thing.
"What do you want, Liam?"
"I want to—" he stops. His throat works. "I don't want you hurt."
The laugh that comes out of me is sharp, bitter. "I'm not hurt."
"Star—"
"You left." I wave the shears at his chest. He doesn't move. "You left me. Said you didn't want a future and never came back."
"I know."
"So what did you expect? That I'd just—what? Wait? Build a shrine?"
"I expected you to be safe."
"Safe?" The word is a blade. "Safe from what? From you?"
"From this." His hands come up, frame my face. "From me having to tell you things you shouldn't have to hear. From the mess I've made of both our lives because I can't—" He stops. "I can't give you what you want."
“What do you think I want?”
"A fairy tale." The words are bitter. "You built your whole life waiting for a prince. I am not a prince. I am a man with obligations and contracts and a life that doesn't have room for—"
"Don't." The word comes out flat. "Don't sell me your father story again."
His face goes still.