My stomach twists as realization hits me like freight train.
There is one obvious reason.
A woman in a sky-blue apron bustles out of a backroom before I can ask, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She's in her forties, with a kind mouth and generous curves, and black hair scraped back into a low bun.
Her gaze sweeps over Stefan first, then me, and her eyes crinkle with pleasure.
"Oh, I love appointments like these," the florist says, striding forward. Her name badge says 'Hi! I'm Renata.' "Half the time, these men don't care a fig what their girlfriend's favorite flower is. They just want me to pick so they get the brownie points, as though I can guess from nothing! But bringing you here—that's much better." She winks at me, and heat floods my cheeks. "You've got a good one here. Make su
