Page 6 of The Florist and Her Alphas

I laugh, wanting to cry but stopping myself. “No.”

“Lia. Listen to me. People are stupid. She made up a story in her head about it. That’s her problem. Not yours.”

“I know,” I say, sighing, taking a long sip of coffee. “It’s just so embarrassing when they think I’m a worthless omega with failed marks. Like there’s something extremely wrong with me.”

“The person who did that to you is the one who’s messed up,” says Mira, sighing. “Was it an alpha?”

“Yes,” I say hesitantly, and I’m saved from explaining the story when a delivery van parks at the curb in front of my shop.

Toby clambers out like a disaster in motion. He’s carrying two huge buckets of wholesale flowers and also juggling his sketchbook and a coffee that has clearly been spilled at least once, based on the brown stain down the front of his shirt. He has dark curly hair under a green beanie, an oversized vintage band t-shirt, and cargo pants that have seen better days.

He sees me. Freezes. Blushes so hard I can see it from six feet away.

Then he overcorrects by waving at me with the hand holding the sketchbook, which sends the coffee cup tilting. Water sloshes. One of the buckets drops. Garden roses scatter across the sidewalk, water pooling around his boots.

He yelps.

Mira raises one eyebrow over her coffee cup. “Toby, sweetheart. The flowers.”

I laugh despite everything. Help him gather the roses, careful not to crush the stems. Toby is babbling. “I’m so sorry, Liana. I swear I had a better grip; the traffic on Atlantic was insane, there was this delivery truck that just stopped in the middle of the…”

“Toby. It’s fine. They’re not broken.”

He thrusts the buckets at me like they’re on fire. Then, just as he’s backing toward his car, he stops and reaches into his messenger bag. Produces a small white envelope, slightly crumpled.

“Oh. I almost forgot. This was at the door when I got here this morning. Stuck in the mail slot. Looked important.”

He hands it to me.

The envelope is heavy. Cream-colored paper, the kind that costs money. My name and the shop address are printed on the front in clean black ink. In the upper left corner, in dark green letters:

FROSTWOOD HOLDINGS, LLC / 1 FROSTWOOD TOWER / NEW YORK, NY 10004.

I stare at it.

Mira leans over. “Frostwood. Wait…isn’t that the...?” She squints up at the skyline visible over the rooftops of Brooklyn.

I follow her gaze.

Frostwood Tower rises forty-seven floors of black glass and brushed steel, looming over the city.

“Yeah,” she says. “That’s them.”

Toby, oblivious, shuffles his feet. “Cool. Okay. Anyway. Liana. You look beautiful today. As always. I’m gonna go now.”

He climbs back into the van as it screeches away.

Mira watches him go. “That boy is going to die alone.”

“Mira, be kind. He’ll find someone just like him.”

“I am being kind. I said he would die alone, not painfully.”

The envelope feels expensive and foreboding in my hand.

“You want me to come in with you while you open it?” Mira asks.

I look at the envelope. At the green letters. At the tower across the river.