Page 24 of The Christmas Arrangement

“She didn’t go to college. She started baking with our mom when she was three. My dad built her a stepladder so she could reach the counter. She won her first regional competition in second grade. So she convinced our parents to let her use the money set aside for her for college to fund an apprenticeship at a Parisian pâtisserie.”

“She knew what she wanted and went for it.”

“She did. And she also knew she wanted to bring her fancy French dessert-making skills back home. She runs a dessert truck now, but one day she’ll have a real bakery.”

We lapse back into silence. I continue to check in orders while she returns several phone calls. When her calls are finished, she joins me at the refrigerated case.

“I’m done with everything else. You read the orders off, and I’ll check them. It’ll go faster.”

I step back. She bends down to retrieve the tablet from the floor, and I admire the view.

She catches me checking her out and shakes her head as she hands me the tablet. “Eyes up here, Dash.”

“My bad.” I gloss over the awkward moment. “I was just about to check the Mins’ order. It’s celosia, salal berries, globe amaranth, and white pine and juniper greens.”

She leans into the second case and removes a wreath. “Check.”

“This next one is an easy one. Ryan Morgenthal ordered fourteen champagne roses.” I look up. “Fourteen?”

“They’re for Josh. It’s their fourteenth anniversary.”

She pulls out a vase and silently counts the pale golden blooms. Then she sticks her face directly into the middle of the flowers and takes a giant sniff.

“Uh, you okay?”

She extends the bouquet. “Smell.”

I inhale. Then I stare at her for a few seconds and inhale again, deeper this time. That distinctly rose fragrance is there—and so is something fruity, something sweet, and something spicy.

“What do you smell?”

“Pears.” Sniff. “And honey.” Another sniff. Then I shake my head. “And some kind of spice. Or maybe licorice?”

“So close. Anise and almond.”

“I thought all roses smelled like roses.”

“Nope. There are five main categories of fragrances, but roses are complex. More than three hundred compounds layer in different combinations to create dozens, maybe hundreds, of scents.” Her voice is tender, almost awe-struck.

I reach out to touch a bloom, and her tone changes. “Careful, they’re?—”

My finger pricks. “Ow!”

“—a very thorny variety,” she finishes as a droplet of bright red blood bubbles up on my skin. Followed by another. And another.

I shake my finger and bite back a curse.

She returns the offending roses to the case and puts a hand on my arm to still it just as I’m about to put my finger in my mouth and suck the blood off.

“Don’t,” she says as she pulls me into the back room and heads for a utility sink.

“It’s a time-honored practice,” I tell her. “It’s where the phrase ‘licking your wounds’ comes from.”

“Even if that’s true, Vlad, your mouth isn’t sterile.”

She turns on the water and tests the temperature before guiding my now freely bleeding finger into the stream. After rinsing it, she washes it with liquid soap, rinses it again, and pats it dry with a soft cloth.

“Do you need a bandage?”