Page 9

Ryan

Will pick up in 2 mins

There’s no looks great or anything like that. Not that customers are obliged to compliment my work, of course, but they usually do when I send over a photo of a piece I’ve made for them. Then again, from the little I know of Ryan Sloan, he isn’t one to waste words.

I manage a few more mouthfuls of tea before the bell goes.

It’s him, but not as he was this morning. He’s in a black sports T-shirt and running shorts, earbuds in, his skin gleaming and his breathing not quite settled. Looks like he’s come straight from a run. Apparently, last night’s shenanigans haven’t taken it out of him. Mind you, he’s probably had the option of a nap today. Some of us have been working.

“This it, then?”

He nods at the basket as he approaches, coming close enough that I get a hit of him again, only it isn’t what it was this morning. That was soap and cedar; this is salt and heated skin. I spend my working life surrounded by gorgeous scents, so quite why I’m dwelling on the smell of a sweaty man, I couldn’t say.

Sleep. I need sleep.

“Er…yes.”

I’m about to suggest he carry it by the base because of the clematis around the handle, but he’s already crouching to get his hands under it. My eyes drop before I can stop them, and—oh. His thighs are long and thick with muscle. A serpent twists up his left thigh, fangs bared and scales picked out in fine black lines, its tail disappearing beneath the hem of his shorts.

Ryan lifts the basket into the crook of one arm as though it weighs nothing. As he straightens, his eyes meet mine. Then he smirks.

Oh my God. Did he just catch me looking?

“Thanks,” he says.

A moment later, the bell jingles behind him.

By the time I climb the stairs to my flat, it’s gone six and I’m done in.

The shop shut at five and it was Emmy’s turn to lock up, so by rights I should have been up here an hour ago with my shoes off. But I lost a good chunk of my day to that basket, then two last-minute orders came in for tomorrow that I wasn’t about to turn away, so I stayed on to make them up.

My feet are throbbing. Still, it’s a good sort of tired, mostly. Two new orders is two new orders.

Penny trots ahead of me up the stairs, leaving small dusty pawprints on the steps. Builders’ dust has been getting everywhere for weeks, but now that he’s living up there, surely the end is in sight. It can’t come soon enough.

“Dinner, bath, and telly, Pen,” I tell her as we round the turn. “The Repair Shop is on tonight.”

I take the last few steps onto my landing, then stop. Because sitting in front of my door is a basket of parrot tulips, cream ranunculus, and pale pink clematis.

My basket. The one I made for Ryan.

For a good ten seconds, I just stand staring at it, trying to figure out why it’s made its way back to me. Did Ryan’s lady friend not care for it? Maybe she’s allergic. Has he brought it back expecting a refund?

Then I see the little blank card I tucked in for him to write his own message. It isn’t blank now.

For the noise. And the building work.

Wait. He bought the basket for me? He came into my shop, asked me what my favourite flower is, ordered my most expensive gift arrangement, had me spend two hours building it, then left it outside my door?

What is he playing at? Is this supposed to be an apology? Who commissions a woman to make her own apology gift?

I read the note a second time, like that’ll somehow help me make sense of this. It doesn’t.

Is this some sort of joke?

I take a breath.

Right. The sensible thing would be to take the basket inside and say a polite thank you the next time I pass him on the stairs. I can do that. I’m good at being polite.