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I step closer, resting my hands on her waist.

“And if he had continued?”

“Then I would’ve charged him extra.”

I stare at her.

She grins.

I laugh.

“Little flower, you are a ruthless woman.”

“Learned from the best.”

I kiss her forehead.

“Then I am an excellent teacher.”

She tilts her face toward mine.

“Debatable.”

I kiss her properly.

Her hands slide up my chest, and for several delightful moments, I forget we are standing in the middle of her flower shop.

Then the bell above the door rings.

Wren pulls away.

“Behave.”

I smile.

“No promises.”

Several weeks have passed since her ex was arrested. Wren has begun the process of obtaining a protective order, and the police have warned him against contacting her. She no longer flinches whenever her telephone makes a sound.

I consider that a victory greater than any battlefield conquest.

My own life has changed considerably.

I have learned to operate the register, although Wren insists I am not permitted to negotiate prices.

I have learned that flowers require sunlight, water, and patience.

And I have discovered that gardening is an unexpectedly satisfying occupation.

“You know,” Wren says later that afternoon, watching me prune a rosebush, “there’s something incredibly funny about the God of Wrath becoming a gardener.”

I examine a damaged stem.

“Why?”

“Because you’re supposed to be terrifying.”

“I am terrifying.”