Part 1

“Don’t send the roses, Vincent. We’re finished.”

Maggie Sullivan stopped wrapping the bouquet.

The woman’s voice had come through Vincent Moretti’s phone clearly enough to cross the polished wooden counter of Sullivan’s Flowers. Clearly enough that pretending not to hear would have been ridiculous.

Maggie kept one hand on the paper surrounding three dozen red roses.

Across from her stood a thirty-seven-year-old man whose surname made people in the city lower their voices.

Vincent said nothing.

The woman on the phone did.

“You don’t know how to have a normal relationship.”

The call ended.

For several seconds, the only sound in the flower shop was the low hum of the refrigerator case.

Maggie looked at Vincent.

Vincent looked at the roses.

Thirty-six of them.

Imported, long-stemmed, expensive.

And apparently unnecessary.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said.

He gave a single nod.

Another silence followed.

Maggie glanced at the receipt beside the register.

Sympathy was one thing. Accounts receivable was another.

She slid the receipt toward him.

“You still have to pay for the roses.”

Vincent slowly raised his eyes.

For one uncomfortable second, Maggie wondered whether she had finally discovered the boundary she should not cross with Vincent Moretti.

Then he laughed.

Not the restrained social laugh of a wealthy man being polite. It escaped him suddenly, almost unwillingly, as if the absurdity of the afternoon had broken through whatever control he normally carried around with him.

Maggie relaxed.

“Good.”

His amusement faded into curiosity. “Good?”

“You looked like you were deciding whether to disappear or murder the flowers.”

One eyebrow rose.

“The flowers are innocent.”

“Exactly. I was worried about them.”

His mouth twitched again.

Maggie knew who he was. Everyone did.

Vincent Moretti controlled hotels, restaurants, properties, and enough other businesses that she had stopped trying to remember the list. There were quieter stories about the Moretti family too, stories told carefully and usually without evidence.

Maggie had never been interested enough to decide which were true.

Powerful was enough.

Powerful men usually entered small businesses expecting the room to rearrange itself around them.

At that moment, however, Vincent Moretti was simply a man who had been dumped in front of a florist.

He took out his wallet.

Maggie gave him the total.

He paid.

Then he stared at the enormous bundle.

“What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Your problem.”

He looked at her.

Maggie held out for three seconds.

“Fine. Take them to a nursing home.”

“All thirty-six?”

“There are probably women over seventy who haven’t received flowers in twenty years. I think they can handle the burden.”

He studied her.

“They’ll survive your heartbreak,” she added.

That earned another laugh, quieter than the first.

At the door, Vincent stopped with the roses in his arms.

“Do you speak to every customer this way?”

“Only the ones who get dumped before paying.”

His gaze lingered on her.

Maggie smiled.

“Have a better afternoon, Mr. Moretti.”

“That seems statistically likely.”

Then he left.

Maggie assumed she would never see him again.

The next afternoon, the bell above her door rang.

Vincent walked in.

She looked up from a bundle of eucalyptus.

“Please don’t tell me she wants you back.”

“No.”

“Good.”

His eyebrow rose.

“For my inventory,” Maggie explained. “Thirty-six roses take time.”

“My apologies for the economic consequences of my failed relationship.”

“Accepted.”

He nearly smiled.

“So why are you here?”

“I need flowers.”

“For whom?”

“My grandmother.”

“Birthday?”

“No.”

“Hospital?”

“No.”

“Apology?”

“No.”

Maggie frowned. “Then why?”

Vincent paused as if this possibility had only recently occurred to him.

“Apparently flowers don’t require an emergency.”

Maggie smiled.

He had learned something.

“What does your grandmother like?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“She likes flowers.”

“That narrows it down to almost every flower in this shop.”

He looked around. “You’re the specialist.”

“Then tell me about her.”

“My grandmother?”

“That is generally how custom arrangements work.”

Vincent leaned against the counter.

“She’s seventy-five.”

“Useful.”

“She reads constantly.”

“Better.”

“She dislikes being interrupted.”

“I like her already.”

“She has strong opinions about almost everything.”

“Now I definitely like her.”

The conversation continued while Maggie worked.

Vincent had clearly expected to purchase flowers, not submit to an interview about Beatrice Moretti’s personality. But Maggie kept asking questions, and eventually his answers became less guarded.

Beatrice loved old movies.

Sunday lunches mattered to her.

She saved handwritten letters.

She had no difficulty telling her grandson when she believed he was wrong.

By the time Maggie finished the arrangement, it looked nothing like something Vincent would have chosen by pointing at a catalog.

It looked like Beatrice.

Vincent studied it.

“You got all of that from what I told you?”

“That’s my job.”

Something in his expression changed.

Not surprise exactly.

Recognition.

As if he had walked into a flower shop expecting decoration and discovered expertise instead.

He paid.

At the door, he stopped.

“The roses yesterday.”

Maggie looked up. “What about them?”

“I took them to the senior residence.”

She blinked.

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Anonymously?”

“You suggested it.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually listen.”

He looked mildly offended.

“I listen.”

“You bought thirty-six roses for a woman who dumped you while I was wrapping them.”

“I didn’t know she was going to dump me.”

“Important distinction.”

“Very.”

Maggie smiled. “Did they like them?”

Vincent’s entire expression softened.

“Yes.”

She returned to the stems in front of her.

“Then they weren’t wasted.”

There was a pause.

“Goodbye, Maggie.”

Her hands stopped.

She could not remember telling him to call her Maggie.

She looked up.

“Goodbye, Vincent.”

He came back two days later.

Then the following week.

At first, every visit had a reason.

Flowers for Beatrice.

An arrangement for an employee’s anniversary.

Something for a hotel lobby.

Then his reasons became increasingly questionable.

On his fourth visit, Maggie folded her arms.

“You own hotels.”

“Yes.”

“Hotels employ florists.”

“Some do.”

“You have suppliers.”

“Yes.”

“And people whose entire job is buying things so that you don’t personally have to wander into neighborhood flower shops.”

Vincent considered the argument.

“Yes.”

Maggie waited.

He glanced around Sullivan’s Flowers.

“I prefer this one.”

The answer caught her off guard.

She disguised it with irritation.

“What are you buying?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“That’s becoming a pattern.”

The bell rang before he could answer.

An elegant older woman entered.

Vincent turned.

“Grandmother.”

Maggie immediately understood.

Beatrice Moretti looked first at Vincent, then at Maggie, then around the shop.

Her expression changed.

Maggie pointed at her.

“Don’t.”

Beatrice widened her eyes. “I haven’t said anything.”

“Your face did.”

Vincent sighed.

“I’ve been telling her that for years.”

Beatrice approached the counter.

“So. You’re Maggie.”

Maggie looked at Vincent.

He suddenly found a nearby arrangement fascinating.

“That sounded ominous.”

“It wasn’t.” Beatrice offered her hand. “Vincent told me you chose my flowers.”

Maggie shook it.

“I interrogated him until he gave me enough information.”

“That sounds more accurate.”

“You’re welcome,” Vincent said.

Beatrice ignored him.

“The arrangement was beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“And the flowers at St. Catherine’s were a lovely idea.”

Vincent frowned. “How did you know about those?”

Beatrice smiled.

“I know people.”

Maggie laughed.

Vincent looked between them.

“I’m beginning to regret introducing you.”

“You should,” Maggie said.

“Definitely,” Beatrice agreed.

“You’ve known each other for thirty seconds.”

“Some relationships develop quickly.”

Maggie pointed at Beatrice.

“No.”

“I said nothing.”

“Your face did.”

Vincent laughed.

Beatrice saw the way he looked at Maggie.

Maggie did not.

But Beatrice Moretti had been alive for seventy-five years. She knew her grandson. She knew he had assistants who could purchase flowers, managers who could arrange hotel displays, and employees who could handle every order Vincent had suddenly decided required his personal attention.

Flowers were no longer the reason he kept coming back.

Within another week, even Maggie began to suspect it.

Vincent entered twice.

On the second visit, he spent so long staring at the roses that she finally lowered her scissors.

“What do yellow roses mean?”

“Friendship.”

“Red?”

“Love.”

“White?”

“Depends whether somebody is getting married or buried.”

He frowned.

“Flowers are unnecessarily complicated.”

“Men say that about most things involving feelings.”

“I’m beginning to understand why florists stay in business.”

“Emotional confusion has excellent profit margins.”

He looked at the flowers again.

“What says thank you?”

“To whom?”

“My grandmother.”

“For what?”

A pause.

“Sunday lunch.”

Maggie stared.

“You need flowers because your grandmother fed you?”

“She’ll appreciate them.”

“She’ll know you’re using her as an excuse.”

Vincent’s eyes returned to hers.

“An excuse for what?”

“You’ve bought flowers three times this week.”

“I own hotels.”

“Hotels have flowers.”

“Yes.”

“Lots of them.”

“Yes.”

“Which you don’t need to buy personally.”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Vincent looked directly at her.

“Because they’re not from you.”

Silence.

The words appeared to surprise him almost as much as they surprised Maggie.

He exhaled.

“Was that too obvious?”

“Painfully.”

Then she smiled.

So did he.

The following Sunday, Beatrice arrived alone.

Maggie glanced behind her.

“No Vincent?”

“No.”

“Is he sick?”

Beatrice smiled.

“Interesting.”

Maggie frowned. “What?”

“You noticed he wasn’t with me.”

“I notice all missing customers.”

“Of course.”

“You came here to cause trouble.”

“I came for flowers.”

“For whom?”

“Myself.”

“That is suspiciously reasonable.”

Beatrice wandered closer.

“My grandson likes you.”

Maggie nearly cut a ribbon too short.

“Your grandson likes flowers.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He buys enough of them.”

“Exactly.”

Maggie looked up.

Beatrice’s smile widened.

“Before you, Vincent sent an assistant for flowers. Actually, he sent assistants for almost everything.”

“Maybe he’s developing an appreciation for small businesses.”

“Maybe.”

“Beatrice.”

“I said nothing.”

“Your face did.”

Beatrice laughed.

Two evenings later, Vincent appeared shortly before closing.

Maggie was carrying a heavy bucket toward the back.

He took it from her.

“I can do that.”

“I know.”

He carried it anyway.

When he returned, Maggie folded her arms.

“Why are you here?”

“No emergency.”

“Good.”

“No grandmother.”

“Concerning.”

“No hotel arrangement.”

“Then we’ve run out of excuses.”

“Yes.”

Neither moved.

Finally Vincent said, “Dinner. Friday.”

“With flowers?”

“No.”

“Business?”

“No.”

“Grandmother?”

“No.”

Maggie studied him.

“You’re actually asking me out.”

“That was the intention.”

“I need clarification with you. You once purchased thirty-six roses for what became a breakup.”

“In my defense, I didn’t know it was going to become a breakup.”

She laughed.

“Friday.”

His expression softened.

“Seven-thirty?”

“Seven-thirty.”

After he left, Maggie remained behind the counter for several seconds.

Her phone rang.

Beatrice.

Maggie stared at the screen.

“No.”

She let it ring.

A message appeared instead.

Did he ask?

Maggie laughed despite herself.

You are a terrible person.

The reply arrived immediately.

That means yes.

Part 2

Vincent chose a neighborhood restaurant for their first date.

No private dining room.

No unnecessary spectacle.

Nobody hovering beside the table because Vincent Moretti had arrived.

Maggie appreciated that immediately.

They ordered dinner like ordinary people.

For a while she almost forgot that ordinary was exactly what Vincent’s former girlfriend had accused him of being incapable of managing.

He asked about Sullivan’s Flowers.

“My aunt started it,” Maggie told him. “Years ago.”

“And left it to you?”

“She left me the opportunity to spend nine years worrying about payroll.”

Vincent smiled. “But you kept it alive.”

“I improved it.”

There was no hesitation.

He noticed.

“So it’s yours.”

Something about the way he said it pleased her.

Not adorable.

Not charming.

Not a hobby she happened to earn money from.

A business.

Hers.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“Do you enjoy running hotels?”

“Most days.”

“That sounded diplomatic.”

He smiled.

“I like building things that last. Hotels. Businesses. Relationships with people. Responsibilities.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“Sometimes.”

Maggie hesitated.

“Your ex said you were too busy.”

Vincent didn’t flinch.

“She wasn’t entirely wrong.”

Maggie waited.

“I kept assuming a relationship could fit around everything else,” he continued. “Eventually there wasn’t enough space left for the relationship.”

There was no bitterness.

He didn’t insult the woman who had left him or turn her into a villain because Maggie was sitting across from him now.

Maggie liked that.

“So now you’re studying flower meanings?”

“I’m expanding.”

“Slowly.”

“Painfully, apparently.”

After dinner, they walked.

When they stopped, Maggie looked at him.

“I expected you to be more intimidating.”

“I can try.”

“No.”

She smiled.

“You’re better like this.”

The teasing left his expression.

“May I kiss you?”

Maggie’s smile deepened.

“You may.”

She stepped closer.

“But if it’s terrible, I’m telling Beatrice.”

Vincent exhaled.

“Unnecessary pressure.”

She laughed.

Then he kissed her.

It was gentle and certain, without being hurried.

When they separated, Maggie stayed close.

“Well?” Vincent asked.

She pretended to think.

“I haven’t decided.”

“That seems unfair.”

“I’m a professional.”

“At flowers.”

“And romantic evaluation.”

“I wasn’t aware the service was included.”

“It costs extra.”

“Should I try again?”

Maggie looked at him.

“Yes.”

So he did.

On Monday, he appeared at Sullivan’s Flowers carrying coffee and a paper bag.

Maggie eyed the cup.

“What’s this?”

“Coffee.”

“I recognize the species.”

“You said Friday that you forget to eat when you’re busy.”

“That isn’t coffee.”

“I brought lunch too.”

He raised the bag.

Maggie stared at him.

“You listen.”

“I’ve been accused of it.”

“Not by me.”

“Not yet.”

She took the bag.

“Thank you.”

Vincent stayed until she ate.

He didn’t ask her to close early.

He didn’t become irritated when customers interrupted.

He waited.

Days later, Maggie handed him a pair of clippers.

Vincent examined them.

“What am I doing?”

“Learning.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“You wanted to understand flowers.”

“I asked what yellow roses meant.”

“And now you’re receiving the full education.”

She showed him how to trim a stem.

He tried.

Maggie stared at the result.

“You run hotels.”

“Yes.”

“Successfully?”

“Usually.”

“Interesting.”

“This feels judgmental.”

“It is.”

He tried again.

“Better.”

“Progress.”

The bell rang.

Beatrice entered.

She stopped when she saw her grandson behind the counter with clippers while Maggie corrected his grip.

Her smile arrived slowly.

“No,” Maggie warned.

“I haven’t spoken.”

“Your face did.”

Vincent set the clippers down.

“I warned you about that.”

“I came to invite both of you to Sunday lunch.”

Maggie blinked. “Both?”

“Unless Vincent has suddenly become too busy.”

Vincent looked at Maggie.

“I’m free.”

“Of course you are,” Beatrice said.

Maggie laughed.

Sunday lunches became a habit.

So did Vincent waiting near closing.

Sometimes he brought coffee.

Sometimes food.

Sometimes nothing.

One evening, Maggie handed him ribbon.

“Make a bow.”

Vincent looked at it.

“I thought we established that I’m bad with stems.”

“You improved. We’re advancing.”

Five minutes later, Maggie stared at his creation.

“I’m trying to understand how a man who manages hotels can lose a fight with six feet of satin.”

“It’s structurally unsound.”

“It’s ribbon.”

“Exactly.”

Maggie took it.

“Watch.”

She tied the bow quickly.

Vincent watched her instead.

When she finished, she caught him.

“You learned nothing.”

“I disagree.”

“Make another.”

“I preferred the first lesson.”

She laughed.

Those became the moments Maggie anticipated most.

Nothing extraordinary happened.

That was why they mattered.

Vincent never expected Sullivan’s Flowers to reorganize itself around him.

If Maggie had deliveries, he waited.

If a customer required twenty minutes to choose between carnations and roses, he waited.

Once, Maggie apologized for keeping him there.

Vincent looked genuinely puzzled.

“You’re working.”

“I noticed.”

“Then why are you apologizing?”

Maggie had no answer.

She thought about it later.

Her previous boyfriend, Eric, had spoken about the flower shop as if she spent her days playing with bouquets.

Vincent never did.

To him, her work was work.

The respect was becoming dangerously attractive.

A month into their relationship, Vincent invited Maggie to a charity luncheon at one of the Moretti hotels.

She nearly declined.

Not because she didn’t want to attend.

Because she knew rooms like that.

Maggie had delivered flowers to them.

People like her entered carrying centerpieces.

People like Vincent had their names printed on programs.

Still, she went.

Most of the afternoon was easier than expected.

Then Diane Prescott approached.

Diane chaired the charity committee and had ordered from Sullivan’s Flowers before.

“You did the flowers,” Diane said.

“Some of them.”

Diane glanced toward the arrangements.

“They’re charming.”

“Thank you.”

Her attention returned to Maggie.

“It must be exciting getting to attend one of these events instead of simply delivering.”

Maggie understood.

The sentence was polite.

Its meaning wasn’t.

She smiled.

“It is. I finally get to discover what happens after everyone complains about the centerpieces.”

An older woman nearby laughed into her drink.

Diane didn’t.

“I’m sure people rarely complain.”

“They do. Usually after requesting something twice as large for half the budget.”

The older woman laughed again.

Diane excused herself.

Maggie watched her go.

Humor had worked.

Mostly.

But the remark stayed with her.

Later, Vincent found her near the entrance.

“You survived.”

“Barely. There were tiny desserts.”

“I warned you.”

“You absolutely did not warn me they’d be too small to identify.”

“I assumed you knew.”

“That information could have changed everything.”

On the drive back, Maggie told him about Diane.

She even repeated her centerpiece joke.

Vincent laughed.

Then he asked, “Did it bother you?”

Maggie considered lying.

“A little.”

“Do you want me to do anything?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

She turned toward him.

“That’s it?”

“You said no.”

“I know.”

“Did you want me to argue?”

“No.”

“Then we’ve achieved something.”

Maggie smiled.

“Yes.”

He didn’t promise to teach Diane a lesson.

He didn’t tell Maggie that he could force people to respect her.

He respected her answer instead.

That mattered more.

Two weeks later, Diane Prescott called Sullivan’s Flowers.

The charity anniversary dinner needed floral arrangements for the entire event.

Maggie took notes.

Tables.

Delivery.

Setup.

Budget.

By the time they finished, it was one of Sullivan’s largest event orders of the year.

“The committee expects everything to be exceptional,” Diane said.

Maggie smiled.

“So do I.”

After the call ended, she looked at her notes.

Good business.

Her business.

She wasn’t going to let one patronizing conversation frighten her away from work she had earned.

That evening, Vincent arrived with dinner.

Maggie handed him the event sheet.

“Your friend hired me.”

He read the name.

“Diane is not my friend.”

“She’ll be devastated.”

“What’s the event?”

“The charity anniversary dinner.”

He scanned the details.

“That’s a large order.”

“It is.”

“Congratulations.”

No surprise.

No warning about whether she could handle it.

No concern disguised as advice.

Just congratulations.

Maggie smiled.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Of course you will.”

“I’m invited.”

“Very impressive.”

“So are you.”

Maggie frowned.

“I’m working.”

“You’re also my date.”

She stared at him.

“Both,” Vincent said. “If you want to be.”

Maggie remembered Diane’s earlier comment.

It must be exciting getting to attend one of these events instead of just delivering.

“I’ll have to finish setup first.”

“I know.”

“I’m not changing the delivery schedule because I’m your date.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“And if something goes wrong with the flowers—”

“You’ll handle it.”

Maggie smiled.

“You’re learning.”

“I’ve had a good teacher.”

“Not with bows.”

“Unnecessary.”

Three weeks later, Maggie spent most of the afternoon preparing the ballroom.

By six, every arrangement was in place.

She checked the final table herself, made one adjustment, then found Diane.

“Everything’s finished.”

Diane surveyed the room.

“It looks lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“The vendor meal is downstairs.”

Maggie paused.

“I’m sorry?”

“I asked someone to show you where the vendors are eating.”

“I’m not eating with the vendors.”

Diane’s expression remained pleasant.

“You’re working tonight.”

“I was.”

“Surely you understand.”

“No.”

Diane’s smile tightened.

“You provided the flowers.”

“Yes.”

“Mixing business with your relationship makes things awkward.”

There it was.

Professionalism being used to disguise something much simpler.

“You hired my shop to make this room beautiful.”

“Correct.”

“You approved the arrangements.”

“Yes.”

“You paid my invoice.”

“I did.”

Maggie nodded.

“Then professionally, we’re finished.”

She let the silence remain.

“Personally, I was invited.”

“By Vincent?”

“Yes.”

“As his date?”

“Yes.”

Diane lowered her voice.

“Don’t you see how that looks?”

Maggie almost laughed.

“I’m beginning to understand how you want it to look.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“It is.”

Diane’s expression cooled.

“Vincent Moretti lives in a very different world from yours.”

“I noticed his hotels are considerably larger than my flower shop.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“No. It isn’t complicated either. I did a job. You paid me. The job is finished.”

Maggie looked around the ballroom she had helped transform.

“I don’t borrow his invitation any more than he borrows my work.”

Diane stared at her.

Then the politeness disappeared.

“Women like you always say that until the expensive life starts looking comfortable.”

Maggie went still.

For a moment, she remembered Eric.

She does flowers.

Not owns a business.

Not built something.

Just does flowers.

Something small beside the supposedly important life of a man.

Her humor vanished.

Diane saw it.

Perhaps that was what she wanted.

Maggie drew one slow breath.

“You know what’s comfortable?”

Diane waited.

“Knowing I can go home without asking anybody’s permission.”

Then Maggie walked away.

She didn’t call Vincent.

She didn’t leave.

She didn’t hide in a bathroom.

She found the staff member Diane had instructed to send her downstairs.

The woman looked embarrassed.

“I’m really sorry.”

“You were doing your job.”

“Your work is finished.”

Maggie smiled.

“Exactly.”

Then she walked into the dinner as Vincent’s date.

Part 3

Vincent was preparing for his keynote speech and initially noticed nothing.

When he saw Maggie, he smiled.

“You made it.”

“I told you I would.”

“How did setup go?”

“Beautifully.”

He watched her.

“Maggie?”

She hesitated.

“Later.”

Something in her expression made him understand.

“Something happened.”

“Yes.”

“Do I need to know now?”

“No.”

He nodded.

“All right.”

That was all.

No interrogation.

No demand that she tell him immediately.

Maggie touched his arm.

“Go give your speech.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I’ll find you afterward.”

“I’ll be here.”

And she was.

She listened.

She talked with guests.

She accepted compliments about the arrangements.

An older woman asked for Maggie’s card because her granddaughter was getting married. Another remembered Sullivan’s Flowers from a hospital delivery.

The evening continued.

Diane did not get to ruin it.

After most of the guests had left, Vincent found Maggie.

“Now?”

Maggie nodded.

“Now.”

She told him everything.

The vendor meal.

Diane’s comments.

The implication that Maggie was using Vincent for access to wealth.

She didn’t soften it.

She didn’t joke.

Vincent’s expression grew colder as she spoke.

When she finished, he was quiet.

Then he asked, “What do you want from me?”

Maggie had expected anger.

She had expected him to offer to handle Diane.

She had not expected that.

“What?”

“What do you want me to do?”

She thought.

“Nothing tonight.”

Vincent nodded.

“Okay.”

Again, it felt almost too easy.

“You’re not going to argue?”

“No.”

“You’re angry.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re going to leave it?”

“You asked me to.”

Maggie looked at him.

The question underneath everything finally surfaced.

“I need to know whether this is going to happen everywhere.”

His expression changed.

“I don’t mean Diane.”

“I know.”

“I can deal with Diane.”

“I know that too.”

She looked back at the ballroom.

“But am I always going to enter places like this and have somebody assume I’m the florist before I’m your date?”

Vincent was silent.

That honesty hurt more than a reassuring lie would have.

“Are people always going to wonder what I’m doing with you?” she asked.

“Some will.”

“Because of money.”

“Probably.”

“Because I own one little flower shop and you own half the buildings they eat dinner in.”

“I don’t own half.”

Maggie looked at him.

“Not the time.”

“Sorry.”

She almost smiled.

Vincent stepped closer.

“I can’t control every room you enter.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t want to spend my life needing you to prove I belong in them.”

“I don’t want that either.”

That helped.

It did not answer everything.

Two days later, Beatrice arrived at Sullivan’s Flowers.

She bought nothing.

Maggie immediately became suspicious.

“You’re here without a floral emergency.”

“I learned from Vincent.”

“That’s becoming concerning.”

Beatrice rested both hands on the counter.

“He told me what happened.”

“Of course he did.”

“He was angry.”

“He behaved.”

“I know. I’m very proud.”

Maggie returned to trimming stems.

“Diane thinks I like his lifestyle.”

“Do you?”

“I like Vincent.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Maggie looked up.

Beatrice waited.

“Some of it is nice.”

“Of course it is.”

Maggie blinked.

Beatrice shrugged.

“Money buys comfortable chairs. Only fools pretend otherwise.”

Maggie laughed.

Then the laughter faded.

“I don’t want people looking at me and deciding that’s why I’m there.”

“They will.”

Maggie frowned.

“You Morettis are terrible at reassurance.”

“I’m not finished.”

Beatrice moved closer.

“When I married Vincent’s grandfather, people said I wanted his family’s money.”

Maggie stared at her.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“Married him anyway.”

Maggie smiled.

“Did they stop?”

“Some.”

“And the others?”

“Some were still saying it forty years later.”

Maggie’s smile disappeared.

“Did it stop bothering you?”

“No.”

The answer surprised her.

Beatrice reached across the counter and touched Maggie’s hand.

“I simply stopped confusing being bothered with being defeated.”

Maggie looked at her.

Beatrice released her hand.

No grand speech followed.

She inspected the unfinished arrangement instead.

“You need more greenery.”

Maggie laughed.

“You came here to insult my work.”

“I came here because Vincent is miserable and trying very hard not to interfere.”

“He’s miserable?”

“He’s a Moretti. We do it quietly.”

Maggie smiled.

Beatrice headed toward the door.

“Think about what you actually want, Maggie.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

She opened the door.

“And don’t punish my grandson because Diane Prescott has bad manners.”

“I’m not.”

“Excellent.”

Then she left.

Maggie stood behind the counter.

Diane’s words still bothered her.

Maybe they always would.

Someone else might say something worse someday.

But being hurt by another person’s judgment was not the same thing as surrendering to it.

Her phone rang.

Vincent.

She answered.

“Hello.”

“I received an invitation.”

“That sounds serious.”

“Charity dinner next Saturday.”

Maggie went quiet.

Vincent didn’t rush to fill the silence.

Then he asked, “Will you come with me?”

Not you’re coming.

Not I need you there.

Not even you should come.

A question.

Maggie smiled.

“Are you afraid I’ll say no?”

“Yes.”

The answer was immediate.

She appreciated that.

Maggie looked around Sullivan’s Flowers.

Her shop.

Her work.

Her life.

None of it became smaller because Vincent’s world was larger.

And Diane Prescott did not get to decide which doors Maggie could walk through.

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Yes?”

“Yes. I want to come.”

This time, the choice belonged entirely to her.

The following Saturday, Maggie stood beside Vincent at another charity dinner.

This time she knew exactly why she was there.

Not because Beatrice had encouraged her.

Not because Vincent needed her.

Certainly not because Diane might approve.

Maggie had chosen to come.

Vincent glanced at her.

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m observing.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Probably.”

Before she could continue, an older woman approached.

“Maggie Sullivan?”

Maggie recognized her after a moment.

“Mrs. Patterson.”

The woman smiled.

“You did my daughter’s wedding.”

“I did.”

“The flowers were beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Another woman nearby turned.

“Sullivan’s Flowers?”

Maggie looked at her.

“You did my husband’s memorial.”

Recognition came immediately.

“Mrs. Harris.”

The woman touched Maggie’s arm.

“You remembered that he hated lilies.”

“You were very specific.”

“He would have haunted me if you’d used them.”

Maggie laughed.

“So would my aunt. She taught me to listen.”

A third woman joined them.

“I know you too.”

Maggie turned.

“You send my sister flowers every month.”

“Your sister is Elena?”

“Yes.”

“Then technically, you send them.”

The woman waved the distinction away.

“I forget. You remind me.”

Within minutes, Maggie found herself surrounded.

Weddings.

Birthdays.

Hospital stays.

Funerals.

Anniversaries.

One disastrous bouquet involving flowers a husband absolutely should not have selected without professional assistance.

Vincent stood several feet away.

He didn’t interrupt.

He watched.

Across the ballroom, Diane watched too.

Maggie noticed her.

Then something unexpected happened.

She stopped caring.

These women did not know Maggie because of Vincent.

They knew Sullivan’s Flowers because Maggie’s work had entered some of the most important moments of their lives.

Weddings.

Illness.

Birthdays.

Grief.

Love.

Loss.

Her world had never been small.

It had simply been ordinary.

And ordinary was not the same thing as insignificant.

Later, the host began thanking businesses that had contributed to recent charity events.

A catering company.

A printer.

The hotel events team.

Several other vendors.

Then the acknowledgments ended.

Sullivan’s Flowers had been forgotten.

Maggie felt the disappointment.

Small.

Sharp.

Before she decided whether it mattered enough to mention, a voice came from behind her.

“You forgot the florist.”

Beatrice.

The host stopped.

He checked his notes.

“You’re absolutely right.”

Beatrice raised her glass.

“Sullivan’s Flowers.”

The host apologized and thanked Maggie’s shop for its work at the anniversary dinner.

People applauded.

Nothing dramatic happened.

Vincent didn’t seize the microphone.

Nobody presented Maggie with an award.

Beatrice simply raised her glass toward her.

Maggie smiled.

That was enough.

Later, Diane approached.

Maggie saw her coming and waited.

“Your arrangements were excellent last month,” Diane said.

Maggie held her gaze.

“I know.”

Diane paused.

For the briefest instant, she almost smiled.

Then she nodded and walked away.

Maggie watched her go.

No apology.

No humiliation.

No triumphant speech.

Strangely, Maggie didn’t need one.

Vincent found her later.

They stepped away from the remaining guests.

“How was tonight?”

Maggie considered the question.

“Better.”

“Because Diane behaved?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Maggie glanced across the room.

Diane was talking to someone else.

Maggie realized nearly an hour had passed without her checking where the woman was.

“Because I stopped checking whether she approved of me.”

Vincent smiled.

Maggie immediately pointed at him.

“Don’t look proud. You didn’t do anything.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

He waited.

“Can I still be proud?”

Maggie tried not to smile.

“Maybe.”

Vincent stepped closer.

For a moment neither spoke.

Then, calmly, he said, “I love you.”

Maggie went completely still.

There was no audience.

No crisis.

No elaborate speech.

He said it almost as simply as he had once asked her to dinner.

Vincent studied her expression.

“Bad timing?”

“No.”

“Then why aren’t you speaking?”

Maggie blinked.

“I’m a florist.”

“I know.”

“I normally require at least three days’ notice for declarations this large.”

He laughed.

Maggie saw something in his face that surprised her.

Nervousness.

Vincent Moretti could walk into rooms where everyone knew his name. He could negotiate enormous deals without revealing what he was thinking.

But now he was waiting for one florist to answer him.

Maggie reached for his hand.

“I love you too.”

His fingers closed around hers.

“Was that within the required notice period?”

“No.”

“Should I submit paperwork?”

“I’ll make an exception.”

“That seems generous.”

“I’m known for excellent customer service.”

Vincent smiled.

Then he kissed her.

Quietly.

Privately.

Exactly where they stood.

Several months later, the bell above Sullivan’s Flowers rang near closing.

Maggie looked up from the delivery boxes on the counter.

Vincent walked in.

His hands were empty.

Maggie narrowed her eyes.

“Who are they for?”

He frowned.

“Who are what for?”

“The flowers you’re about to buy.”

“I’m not buying flowers.”

Maggie stared.

“Then why are you here?”

“To see you.”

“You came into a flower shop without buying flowers?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head.

“Terrible customer.”

Vincent lifted a paper bag.

“I brought dinner.”

Maggie looked at the clock.

“That’s technically dinner because I missed lunch.”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“How do you know I missed lunch?”

“You answered my message at three and said you were about to eat.”

“I could have eaten afterward.”

“Did you?”

Maggie stared at him.

Vincent waited.

“No.”

“I know.”

“Don’t become smug.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

She pointed toward the unfinished delivery boxes.

“If you’re staying, make yourself useful.”

Vincent moved beside her.

“What do you need?”

“Close those.”

He began folding boxes while Maggie finished an arrangement.

For several minutes, they worked without talking.

It was easy.

That was their life now.

Vincent came by.

Maggie worked.

Sometimes he helped.

Sometimes he waited.

Sometimes Beatrice called and accused both of them of neglecting her.

Nothing about Sullivan’s Flowers had changed because Maggie loved Vincent.

She still opened the shop in the morning.

She handled invoices.

She remembered birthdays.

She made funeral arrangements carefully because grief deserved patience.

Vincent’s life had not magically become simple either.

He remained busy.

He still carried responsibilities Maggie didn’t want to count.

But he had stopped treating love as something that could survive entirely on whatever time remained after everything else.

He showed up.

Again.

And again.

Maggie glanced over.

Vincent was attempting to tie ribbon around one of the boxes.

She watched for several seconds.

Then winced.

“Still terrible.”

He looked at her.

“At what?”

“Bows.”

Vincent examined his work.

“It’s functional.”

“It’s an insult to ribbon.”

“The box is closed.”

“That is an extremely low standard.”

He tried again.

Somehow, the second attempt was worse.

Maggie laughed.

Vincent held the ribbon out to her.

“Some things require specialists.”

She took it.

“Finally. Respect for my profession.”

He smiled.

Then he leaned over and kissed her cheek.

Maggie tied the bow in seconds.

The first time Vincent Moretti had entered Sullivan’s Flowers, he had been carrying thirty-six roses intended for another woman.

He had walked out embarrassed, heartbroken, and several hundred dollars poorer because Maggie Sullivan had refused to let a breakup cancel an invoice.

Those roses had gone to women who had not received flowers in years.

And Vincent had returned the next day.

Then again.

And again.

Until eventually he no longer needed an order, a hotel, his grandmother, or any other excuse to open the door.

Maggie looked at the badly tied ribbon he had abandoned beside her.

“Vincent?”

“Yes?”

“You still owe me for those first thirty-six roses.”

He looked genuinely offended.

“I paid for them.”

“I mean emotionally.”

“That sounds like an invented charge.”

“Emotional confusion has excellent profit margins.”

Recognition appeared in his eyes.

“You’ve been waiting months to use that against me.”

“Yes.”

Vincent moved closer.

“What’s the balance?”

Maggie pretended to calculate.

“Possibly another forty years.”

His expression softened.

“I can work with that.”

This time, when he kissed her, Maggie was still smiling.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, she could already hear Beatrice claiming she had known exactly how the story would end from the moment her grandson started buying far more flowers than any hotel could possibly need.