Page 16 of Love Arranged

“Your loyalty is appreciated.”

She returns to fixing the flowers while I stare out the window at Lavender Lane, which is ground zero for the city council’s reconstruction project.

The sun is slowly setting outside, casting our run-down street in a golden glow. It might not be the nicest, most popular part of the Historic District, but at this time of day, the huesof pink and orange make our humble little side street look like the most beautiful part of town.

“Are you sure you’re good with locking up later?” I ask, only to delay my departure.

Jane offers me another reassuring smile. “Absolutely. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve got everything covered.”

I get going, but instead of heading to my car right away, I pause outside the store to take it all in.

While the other four storefronts need a serious makeover, Rose & Thorn stands out with its pink-painted bricks and striped awnings. My dad installed the window coverings himself, and it was one of many improvement projects he worked on in the store.

This season’s window display, which took me eight days to assemble, might be my favorite one yet. The melting ice-cream cones are made completely out of flowers, and they’ve been an absolute hit since I unveiled them last week, driving up foot traffic, sales numbers, and social media buzz.

My plan of havingVisit Rose & Thornon everyone’s Michigan bucket list is slowly coming together, and I’ll be damned if the city council thinks they can shut our doors for good.

Ignoring the ache in my chest, I turn away from the window and walk to my parked car located across the street. It’s stuffy inside thanks to the faded upholstery and constant exposure to the hot June sun, but it’s nothing that blasting the AC can’t fix.

I plug my key into the ignition and turn it, only for my heart to drop at the telltale clicking sound.

“No.” I groan while turning the key again.

The dead battery doesn’t respond to my second or third try, so I spend the next few minutes researching tips and tricks. By my fifth failed attempt, I give up on Google and pop the hood open.

My long, dark hair sticks to the back of my neck as I check out the engine. I’m not sure why I bother since I know next to nothing about cars, but I at least need totryto diagnose the issue before I text the family group chat asking for help.

I shoot daggers at the engine until the sound of shoes clapping against the sidewalk steals my attention. I’m about to wave the person down, only to stop when I find a pair of dark brown eyes already focused on me.

If eyes are the window to the soul, Lorenzo Vittori must lack one, because his blank stare gives absolutely nothing away. It remains emotionless as his eyes ever so slowly rove down my body—a reaction he can’t seem to help whenever I’m around.

Today’s outfit is bland at best, like most of my neutral colors lately. Ditching my bright clothes didn’t happen overnight, but rather it felt like I slowly turned the saturation down in my life.

Fashion is my favorite form of self-expression, and lately I want to keep that part of myself hidden away. I’m not sure for how long, but at least until I stop worrying that I’mtoo much.

After being vulnerable with one too many assholes, I’m done wearing my heart on my sleeve—both literally and figuratively.

My choice to dim my personality isn’t a confidence issue.

It’s a trust one.

If a man wants to get to know me, he needs to work for it.Then, once they earn my trust, I’ll whip out the pastel dresses, crochet tops in every color yarn, and my custom-painted sneakers with satin ribbons for laces.

Like usual, I expect Lorenzo to carry on with his day without acknowledging my existence, but I’m surprised when he heads directly toward me.

Something in my chestflutters, and I swear to God I’ve never hated the sensation more. Swooning overLaurencewas one thing, but feeling lightheaded in his alter ego’s presence?

“Need some help?” he asks, the deep timbre in his voice sending a vibration rolling through my body.

“Nope.” I lean over and start fiddling with a cap of some sort.

He stops beside me, standing close enough for me to see the one tiny speck of dirt on his shoe.

How out of character for the perfectionist.

“I haven’t given it a try myself, but maybe if you turn that cap the wrong way long enough, it’ll finally come off,” he says, his amused tone grating on my fraying nerves.

My composure slips at the stupid smirk on his face, and my irritation flares. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”