Chapter 1 - You Still Have to Pay for the Roses
Vincent Moretti slammed his phone onto the flower-shop counter and said, “She dumped me.”
Maggie Sullivan looked at the enormous bouquet beside his hand.
Thirty-six red roses.
She turned over the receipt.
A handwritten number sat at the bottom.
$684.72.
Maggie pushed it toward him.
“You still have to pay for the roses.”
For several seconds, the man half of Chicago seemed afraid to offend simply stared at her.
Maggie knew who he was.
Everyone did.
Vincent Moretti was thirty-four, rich enough that newspapers called his businesses an “empire,” dangerous enough that newspapers were careful about what else they called them, and handsome enough that people occasionally forgot both facts until he looked at them.
He wore a charcoal suit over a black shirt with the top buttons open. Dark hair swept back from his forehead. A tattoo disappeared beneath his collar.
Two men in dark suits waited outside.
Neither looked like he had ever delivered flowers to anyone.
Vincent glanced at the roses.
Then at Maggie.
“My girlfriend just ended a three-year relationship.”
“I heard.”
“And you’re worried about the bill?”
“My landlord has demonstrated very little interest in my emotional life.”
His eyes narrowed.
Maggie wondered whether she had finally discovered the exact sentence that got a florist murdered.
Then Vincent laughed.
Not politely.
Actually laughed.
He covered his eyes with one hand.
Maggie relaxed slightly.
“You’re serious,” he said.
“Painfully.”
He took out his wallet.
“What am I supposed to do with thirty-six roses now?”
Maggie considered the bouquet.
“Three blocks east is St. Catherine’s nursing home.”
Vincent stopped counting bills.
“So?”
“So twenty-four women there probably haven’t received flowers in years.”
His expression changed.
It was subtle.
“Thirty-six roses,” Maggie said. “You could make twelve little arrangements.”
“You want me to walk into a nursing home carrying flowers after being dumped?”
“I think it would be healthier than whatever your employees usually recommend.”
His gaze flicked toward the window.
One of the men outside immediately pretended not to be watching.
Another laugh escaped Vincent.
“You know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“And you talk to me like this anyway?”
“You’re standing in my shop.”
Apparently, that answer interested him.
He paid.
Maggie expected never to see him again.
She was wrong.
At 10:13 the following morning, a black sedan stopped outside Sullivan’s Flowers.
Vincent walked in.
Empty-handed.
Maggie was trimming hydrangeas.
“You forgot something?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
He placed a photograph on the counter.
Twelve elderly women were holding red roses.
Maggie stared.
“You actually went.”
“You told me to.”
“I didn't think men like you took instructions.”
“Neither did I.”
Something in his voice made her smile.
He looked around the shop.
“So what do people buy when they aren't apologizing or getting dumped?”
“Flowers.”
“That was deeply informative.”
“I’m a professional.”
He bought tulips.
He claimed they were for his office.
Three days later, he returned for lilies.
Then peonies.
Then a plant Maggie knew perfectly well would die in an office without sunlight.
By the fourth visit, she crossed her arms.
“You don’t need flowers.”
Vincent looked offended.
“My office is becoming beautiful.”
“Your office is becoming a botanical garden.”
“Is that illegal?”
“You’d know better than I would.”
His mouth twitched.
He came back Saturday.
Maggie was unloading buckets from a delivery truck.
Without asking, Vincent removed his jacket, rolled his sleeves, and picked up two buckets.
She stared at him.
“What?”
“Those cost twelve dollars each.”
“I can afford twelve dollars.”
“I meant your suit.”
He glanced at it.
“I can afford that too.”
Twenty minutes later, Maggie discovered something fascinating.
Vincent Moretti could apparently negotiate contracts worth millions of dollars but could not tie a floral bow.
“That’s terrible,” she said.
He looked down at the crooked ribbon.
“I disagree.”
“It looks injured.”
“I gave it character.”
“You strangled it.”
He smiled.
The bell over the door rang.
A customer entered.
An elderly woman wanted carnations for her sister.
For twenty minutes she debated pink against white.
Vincent stood silently beside the counter.
Maggie expected impatience.
Instead, he listened.
When the woman finally chose pink, Vincent carried the arrangement to her car.
Maggie watched through the window.
That was the first moment her certainty about him developed a crack.
The second came two weeks later.
Wedding season had begun.
Maggie worked from six in the morning until after eight.
At three-thirty one afternoon, Vincent appeared carrying a paper bag.
“You forgot lunch.”
She stared.
“How do you know?”
“Because I came by yesterday at four and you said breakfast was technically lunch if you waited long enough.”
He unpacked sandwiches.
“You keeping track of my meals now?”
“Yes.”
“That’s unsettling.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
She sat on the stool behind the counter.
Vincent handed her a sandwich.
For ten quiet minutes, the terrifying Vincent Moretti ate turkey and Swiss beside buckets of daisies.
Maggie caught herself watching him.
He noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn't nothing.”
“You’re different here.”
His smile disappeared.
“Different how?”
She considered lying.
Instead she said, “Normal.”
Vincent looked down at his sandwich.
Nobody had ever made the word sound so complicated simply by becoming silent.
Finally he said, “Maybe I like being normal.”
Maggie’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
Then his phone buzzed.
He read the screen.
Everything changed.
His shoulders stiffened.
His eyes hardened.
The ordinary man vanished.
“I have to go.”
“What happened?”
“Business.”
He stood.
Maggie hated that word immediately.
Vincent reached the door, then turned.
“Close early tonight.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Maggie.”
“You don't get to walk into my shop, feed me sandwiches, issue mysterious orders, and leave.”
For several seconds they stared at each other.
Then Vincent crossed back.
His voice lowered.
“Someone has been asking about you.”
Cold moved through her.
“Who?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Why would anyone ask about me?”
Vincent said nothing.
Maggie understood anyway.
“Because of you.”
His silence confirmed it.
She put down her sandwich.
“You should go.”
“Maggie—”
“Go handle your business.”
There was hurt beneath her anger, and Vincent heard it.
He left without arguing.
That evening Maggie locked the shop at seven.
At 7:06, she noticed a black sedan across the street.
Not Vincent’s.
The windows were tinted.
She stared at it.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
A photograph loaded.
It showed Maggie standing inside Sullivan’s Flowers.
The picture had been taken through the front window less than five minutes earlier.
Another message appeared.
DON’T TELL MORETTI.
Maggie slowly raised her eyes toward the black sedan.
May you like
Its rear door opened.
Someone stepped onto the sidewalk.
