Page 20
This is going to be a very long night.
My apartment occupies the second floor of a narrow old building on Saint Street, above a bakery that makes the entire staircase smell like butter and cinnamon. It’s small, a little crooked, and filled with more flowers than any reasonable person needs.
Pink peonies crowd the windowsill. A vase of white roses sits on the coffee table. Dried lavender hangs beside the kitchen doorway, and a collection of mismatched candles occupies nearly every available surface.
It’s girly.
Ridiculously girly.
And I love every inch of it.
Vidar stands in the middle of the living room, taking everything in with an expression I can’t quite decipher.
“Well?” I ask.
He touches a rose petal with one fingertip.
“You live among flowers.”
“I’m a florist. Occupational hazard.”
He examines the arrangement, his massive hand hovering over the delicate blossoms.
“They are dying.”
“Wow. You really know how to compliment a woman’s decorating.”
“They have been cut from their roots.”
“That’s generally how flower arrangements work.”
He looks genuinely offended on behalf of the roses.
I bite back a smile.
“Relax, big guy. I keep them fresh.”
His gaze travels around the room, lingering on the velvet pillows, the pink throw blanket folded across my sofa, and the little ceramic birds perched on the mantel.
“You chose all of this?”
“Every last pink, frilly, completely unnecessary thing.”
“Why?”
“Because I like pretty things.”
He looks at me.
His gaze moves slowly from my damp auburn hair to the hem of my dress.
“So do I.”
Oh.
Well.
That’s inconvenient.
