Page 8 of The Florist and Her Alphas

“Seventy-five thousand should do it,” my brother Julian says, stirring his coffee with the handle of his spoon. He’s got that look on his face, the one he wears when he’s already counting the win. “That’s life-changing money for a shop that size. She’ll take it.”

“Definitely,” Cole agrees. He’s sitting with his back to the wall, watching the door, his posture loose in that deceptively relaxed way that means he’s clocked every exit, every face, every potential threat in the room without seeming to look. The sniper’s habit. He never loses it. “We’ve got this in the bag.”

My youngest brother, August, hasn’t said a word. He’s got his notebook open on the table, a fountain pen moving across the page in that small, precise script of his. He loves places like this, and he’s the only one of us who looks like he belongs here in a cafe. The soft cream sweater, the tortoiseshell glasses sliding down his nose, the boyish slump of his shoulders.

I check my watch. Ten seventeen. She’s late.

“How do you even know she’s coming?” August says without looking up.

“She’s coming,” I say with absolute certainty.

The bell over the door rings.

And there she is.

Fuck. No one told me how beautiful she was.

She walks in with her chin up and her shoulders back and her dark auburn hair pulled into a messy braid that falls over one shoulder, and something in my chest goes tight before I can stop it.

She looks five-two, and her build is petite. My breathing harshens at the sight of her, and my entire body tightens. What the hell is wrong with me?

She’s wearing a loose cream sweater that falls past her hips and soft, worn-looking pants in some faded earth tone, and she looks like she’s trying very hard to be formidable and succeeding only in looking cuter.

My dick gets hard instantly.

Full, throbbing hard, pressing against the seam of my trousers in a way that is absolutely fucking unacceptable at ten in the morning in a goddamn bakery.

Julian goes still beside me.

Across the table, Cole’s posture shifts by maybe half an inch, his shoulders squaring, his gaze tracking her with the focused intensity of a man who has just identified a variable he didn’t account for.

August’s pen stops, and he looks up over the rim of his glasses with his bright blue eyes wide and his mouth slightly open, and the honey scent of him brightens by several degrees.

None of us speak. The air between our table and the door feels charged and thick.

She scans the room. Finds us.

Her pale green eyes lock with mine across twenty feet of warm bakery air. Her gaze is cold, electric, and sharp. She holds the look for three seconds longer than she needs to, and something in that defiance makes my cock twitch against my thigh.

She walks over with a determined look in her eye and pulls out the empty chair next to Julian, sitting across from me.

Her movements are precise, controlled. She folds her hands on the table in front of her, and I notice that her fingers are shaking.

I try to ignore it. Mercy is not a luxury I can afford in a negotiation.

“Liana Marsh,” I say. Her full name. Formal. Cold. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

She looks up. Those pale green eyes meet mine, and the gold flecks in them catch the morning light through the window. Defiant. Beautiful. Fuckable.

“No problem,” she says. Her voice is soft. Softer than I expected. The kind of voice that makes you lean in to hear it.

“Ezra Frostwood,” I say. “Chief Executive Officer, Frostwood Holdings.”

Julian leans forward, that charming smile sliding into place like he’s flicked a switch. “Julian Frostwood. Executive Vice President.” He extends his hand. She doesn’t take it.

Cole nods once. “Cole Frostwood. Head of security.”

August sets his pen down. “August. Record-keeping and analyst. It’s nice to meet you, Liana.”