Before I can do anything besides close my mouth, the man clears his throat. “I know, we need contrast. Light green. Bells of Ireland.” He picks out more flowers. “And then some filler greenery, and finally—” He holds out a stem with dark green leaves. “Smell it.”
I take the stem from him and inhale deeply while he arranges the flowers he’s selected in the vase on the counter. “Mint?”
“Close. Eucalyptus. For fragrance. Go ahead.” He nods at the bouquet. I wiggle the eucalyptus into the vase, nestling it among the blooms. The man adds two more sprigs, then steps back and examines his handiwork. Reaching under the counter, he pulls out a thick piece of twine, loops it around the vase, layers it with a jaunty green ribbon, and expertly ties it into a bow.
“There you go,” he says, pushing the vase toward me. “One hooray-I-got-a-job bouquet.”
I rotate the vase, appreciating the flowers from every angle. The arrangement is magnificent—a stunning mixture of shades, textures, and scents. Nothing I would have thought to pick for myself, but somehow, it feels perfect for this day, this moment. Leaning in, I close my eyes and inhale deeply. A symphony of scents greets me, and I resist the urge to smoosh my face into the blooms.
Opening my eyes, I run my fingertips along an anemone’s silken petals. “Why’d you pick purple?” I ask, tearing my gaze away from the flowers.
The florist shrugs. “Because it brings out the color of your eyes.”
“My eyes are brown.”
“They are. But you have a little green around the pupils. And if you look at a color wheel, purple and green are—”
“Contrasting colors,” I finish.
He blinks in surprise. “Exactly. So purple highlights your eyes.”
Our gazes lock. His eyes are the opposite of mine, I realize. While mine are mostly brown with a hint of green, his are emerald green with a splash of brown ringing the irises. It should be illegal for men to have eyes that pretty. Heat fills my cheeks and I’m the first to look away. “You’re very talented.”
He runs a hand over his smooth chin. “Thank you. And you know about color theory—I’m impressed. Are you an artist?”
I snort. “Hardly. I’m a lawyer.” At his raised eyebrows, I clarify. “I was a studio art major for a semester before I switched to public administration.”
He folds his arms across his chest but almost immediately unfolds them. “I bet there’s an interesting story there.”
I shrug. “Not as interesting as you think.”
“Maybe you can tell me about it sometime… perhaps over drinks?”
My lips part but no sound comes out. Did he just ask me out? Am I ready to date?
An image of Devin flashes through my mind before I can stop myself, and I attempt to shake off a flash of guilt. I am not cheating on my imaginary boyfriend because: He’s. Not. Real. This guy—this cute florist with the mischievous eyebrows and the soulful stare? He’s real. And he’s clearly interested in getting to know me.
So why can’t I answer?
I’m saved from coming up with a response when a door clicks open on the other side of the shop. “Hey, Perry? I’m heading out,” says the same deep male voice from before. The back of my neck tingles. I jerk my head toward the sound, but the numerous store displays obscure my view.
“Where to?” the man behind the counter—Perry, according to the newcomer—says.
“Dropping off the Schmidt order. You’re welcome.”
There’s something about that voice. Licking my lips, I lean back to peer around the nearest display. The profile of a man catches the light, his features too bright to make out. But then he turns, giving me a full view of his face.
I gasp and my heart thunders so loud it echoes in my ears.
The man has dark eyes and thick, nearly black hair that tumbles over his forehead and sweeps across his brows. A long, straight nose. Bold, sensuous lips. Cheekbones so high they would make a supermodel weep. My knees buckle and I catch myself on the shelf behind me. Something rattles and topples over, but I don’t care.
A tsunami of memory fragments and bits of conversation coalesce into the achingly familiar form of the man standing on the opposite side of the shop. I know his features so well I could draw them. Because I have drawn them. Hundreds of times.
It’s Devin. My Devin. Devin Bloom.
My heartbeat accelerates like an out-of-control freight train. With a final wave to Perry, Devin tucks an oversized bouquet of roses against his chest, crosses the room, and walks out of the store. He doesn’t spare me a single glance. The thud of the door closing behind him reverberates through my skull like the gong of a church bell.