Page 12 of The Florist and Her Alphas

“Bergamot. Like, Earl Grey tea bergamot? The kind that makes you want to climb him like a tree?”

“Mira.”

“Because that’s literally the sexiest alpha scent I’ve ever heard of, and I’ve heard some shit.” She picks up her mug again, shaking her head in theatrical dismay. “Cold, controlled, dominant alpha in a three-piece suit who smells like bergamot and wants to buy your flower shop. This is not fair. This is cosmic cruelty.”

“We’re getting drunk,” I announce, reaching for the bottle.

“Way ahead of you.”

We drink. The expensive wine is smooth and dark, nothing like the vinegar in my mug. Mira produces a kouign-amann from the paper bag, flaky and glazed with caramelized sugar, and we tear it apart with our fingers, sticky and laughing.

The alcohol loosens something in my chest. The fear recedes. The memory of Julian’s touch burns with less shame and more wonder.

Mira does an impression of Ezra that nearly kills me.

She sits up straight, squares her shoulders, and lets her face go completely blank. Her voice drops an octave. Becomes measured. Cold. Precise.

“Ms. Marsh. On behalf of Frostwood Holdings, I am writing to inform you that your emotional attachment to four hundred square feet of Brooklyn brick is both financially irrational and aesthetically questionable.”

I snort wine through my nose. Mira doesn’t break character.

“The terms are clear. The timeline is ninety days. I would prefer to resolve this matter promptly, as I have several other small businesses to crush before lunch.”

I’m wheezing. Tears are running down my face. Mira’s impression is devastating. The flat affect, the slight pause before each sentence, the way she delivers every word like it’s been weighed and measured for maximum impact. She’s captured him perfectly. The ice alpha.

“Stop,” I gasp. “I can’t breathe.”

The laughter fades. The room settles. The wine bottle is half empty. Mira’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright, her flour-dusted hair coming loose from its bun. She looks at me over the rim of her mug, and her expression softens.

“You need a lawyer,” she says.

I blink. “A what?”

“A lawyer, Lia. Someone who knows real estate law and will fight for you.”

“I don’t...” I trail off. The reality of what she’s saying crashes into me. Lawyers. Court. Paperwork. Money I don’t have. “I’ve never been on a lawyer’s website in my life. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Look it up and research,” Mira says flatly.

“I can’t afford…”

“I’ll lend you the money.” She says it like it’s nothing. “The bakery’s doing well. I’ve got savings. This is non-negotiable.”

The generosity hits me square in the chest.

My eyes fill.

I look down at my hands, at the small cuts on my fingertips from thorns and shears, at the wine stain on the floor that I still haven’t wiped up.

“I can’t lose it, Mira,” I whisper. The words come out broken. “This shop is all I have. It’s my family. Every flower is something my grandmother taught me. Every arrangement is a piece of her garden. If I lose this place, I lose them all over again.”

Mira sets her mug down. Slides off the sofa. Sits on the floor beside me, her shoulder pressed against mine, warm and solid. She doesn’t say anything. She just wraps her arm around my shoulders and holds me while I cry.

“I should go,” she says after a while, her voice gentle. “I’m getting sleepy, and if I fall asleep on your couch again, my sourdough starter will revolt.”

I nod. She squeezes my shoulder, gets to her feet, and gathers her things. At the door, she stumbles and turns back.

“Find that lawyer,” she says. “Tomorrow. Promise me.”