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That impossible sincerity.

No embarrassment.

No awkwardness.

He simply says exactly what he means.

"I'm not very good at returning things," he admits. "Usually . . . they're left behind."

Something in the way he says it catches me off guard.

Not sad.

Just true.

"No," I murmur more to myself than to him. "You really don't fit anywhere, do you?"

"If you'd still like the vase back . . ."

"I would."

I take it from him, our fingers almost brushing.

Almost.

The smallest spark skitters across my skin.

He notices.

I know he notices because his eyes flick briefly to my hand before meeting mine again.

Neither of us says anything.

Instead, I clear my throat.

"If you'd like some tea, you're welcome to stay. I have to finish the window display, and arranging flowers is considerably less lonely when someone else is pretending to supervise."

"I wasn't aware I was supervising."

"I've promoted you."

"To what?"

I pretend to think.

"Assistant florist."

His expression remains perfectly serious.

"I don't have any experience."

"I've hired worse."

To my immense satisfaction . . .

He almost laughs.

Almost.