Page 44 of Middle Ground

Meyer tucks it into her bag, and we keep going.

“I know you said your tattoo is for your baking, but I’m sensing an overall theme here,” I say.

She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, trying to appear unaffected. “They’re my favourite fruit.”

But I don’t buy it.

“Strawberries, Fraisier…” I’ve had the dessert before, and I spent my elementary school years in French immersion. “Is that why you got it?”

“Of course you understand French, too,” she mutters. A light blush rises to her cheeks, and this only piques my curiosity more. “Yes, okay? The strawberries remind me of home.”

She doesn’t look at me. I can tell that offering up that piece of information about herself was hard for her. But I’m selfishly glad she told me. I file it away in the place where I keep every bit of precious information I know about my business partner.

Knocking her shoulder with mine, I say, “I like it. You look good in red.”

I swear her blush deepens, but she increases her pace, putting distance between us, so I can’t be sure.

Next, we come to a stop in front of a table full of flowers. There are some premade bouquets, but the rest are single-stemmed blooms that can be arranged to your liking.

“Good morning, Meyer,” the woman behind the table says.

She looks to be in her early forties. She has striking blue eyes and white-blonde hair braided down her back. And she has a warm smile on her face, putting me immediately at ease.

“Morning, Ilsa,” Meyer says, eyeing the flowers. “These are gorgeous.”

When it becomes apparent that Meyer isn’t going to, I decide to introduce myself. “Hi,” I say, hand outstretched. “I’m Jackson Vaughan. I own Dog Days Inn with Meyer.”

The woman smiles brighter. “Ilsa Veidt. I own the flower shop on Main.”

“What are these?” Meyer asks as she brings a fresh bouquet to her nose.

“Chrysanthemum,” Ilsa replies. “The birth flower for November. Yours, right?”

Ilsa looks almost nervous for Meyer’s response. But Meyer only smiles. “That’s right. How’d you know?”

Ilsa fidgets with the garden shears in her hand. “Oh, good memory, I guess. Pippa Rhodes ordered flowers for your birthday last year.”

My companion’s brows jump. “Youdohave a good memory.” She holds the bouquet up. “I’ll take these, please.”

Before Meyer can unzip her wallet, I hold a twenty out to Ilsa.

“What are you doing?” Meyer demands.

I grin. “Buying you flowers, Ellison. What does it look like?”

“But— You can’t?—”

Ilsa bites her smile, and I wink. She works on making my change as Meyer short circuits.

“Thank you, Ilsa,” I say. “We’ll see you around.”

I place a hand on the small of Meyer’s back and guide her out of the way of the florist’s other customers. When she doesn’t immediately protest, I keep my hand there. I can feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her dress. All too soon, she spins away from my touch.

“You can’t do that!”

“Do what?” I’m sure my grin is downright goofy at this point.

“Buy me flowers,” she replies. “It’s disconcerting.”