Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
It’s beautiful, a touch smug, and the subtext is clear. Belinda has staked her claim on this particular corner of the kingdom.
And if you cross her?
Well, she’ll rearrange your life into something less than pretty…
The bell chimes as I enter, and Belinda looks up from where she’s fussing over an elaborate white poinsettia and twig bouquet behind the counter.
When she spots me, her expression goes from professional welcome to Arctic tundra in record time.
“Well. Oliver.” She doesn’t quite seethe my name, but it’s close. “You’re up and about awfully early this morning. Considering the evening you had after you left the pub…”
Well, there goes any doubt that she’s seen the pictures…
“Morning, Belinda. Lovely display. Very festive.” I flash my most charming smile. Never let them see you sweat or cave to so much as a hint of shame. “And yes, about last night… That’s why I’m here, actually. I think we should talk.”
“If you’re here to apologize for your friend, I’m afraid that would be a waste of time.” She turns back to her flowers, dismissing me with the efficiency of someone who’s dealt with her share of aristocrats. “The woman demolished a very expensive, very time-intensive-to-create floral arrangement, made poor little Timothy Blake cry, and ruined the tableau before I got a single shareable photo.” She clucks her tongue before adding beneath her breath, “Not to mention flashing her knickers in a room full of children.”
“Knickers? She didn’t flash her knickers. I think I would have noticed if—” I catch myself before I make things worse, forcing another smile as Belinda shifts slitted brown eyes my way. “Right. Yes. Well, of course, you’re correct. It was an unfortunate outcome, all around. Though in her defense, the door was quite stuck, and she was dead on her feet. She’d just flown in from New York on a miserable flight.”
“I don’t care if she’d just flown in from Mars.” Belinda jams a stem into the arrangement with unnecessary force. “She’s reckless and unprofessional. And clearly has no respect for the care and skill that goes into creating a piece of art. If she did, she would have done a better job of apologizing.”
“Oh, come on, Bel,” I murmur as I lean against the counter. “She did apologize. Several times. I heard her.”
But Belinda only flicks her pink-streaked hair from her forehead and hitches her nose higher in the air.
“She was clearly devastated after you left,” I add. “The moment you were out the door, she sat right down and started making a list of ways to get back in your good graces. Action item number one was begging for your forgiveness on her hands and knees. Then, on her belly, if necessary.”
Belinda pauses, one wrinkly twig poised above her vase. “Seriously?”
“As the grave,” I assure her. “There was also something on there about offering to de-thorn roses for you until she’d worked off her debt. I’m not sure if that’s a thing florists actually do, but she really was quite sorry.” I exhale a meaningful sigh. “Though not as sorry as she was this morning, when the bullying from the Who’s Who of the London floral community hit her inbox full force.” I arch a brow her way. “Your doing, I presume?”
Belinda has the grace to look slightly abashed. “I made a few calls. As a gesture of professional courtesy. We look out for each other in our industry. We have to. You wouldn’t believe the way people try to take advantage of vendors in the hospitality field, Oliver.”
“Well, no, I can’t, but I imagine it’s awful. So many entitled people making unhinged demands.” I cock my head and furrow my brow, begging for a scrap of empathy like a homeless puppy. I’m not too proud to beg, especially if there’s even a chance I can get Belinda to give Em the benefit of the doubt. “But Emily isn’t one of those people, Bel. She’s a party planner. In the hospitality field trenches, just like you. She’s a comrade in arms, not your enemy.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of doubt in her tone that wasn’t there before. “Though I do have sympathy for anyone trying to pull together a pitch for an event like the Fletchers’ gala. That’s nearly as much pressure as a royal engagement.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I say, before adding idly, “Speaking of society functions, my mother’s looking for someone to do the floral design for our New Year’s Eve party at Swallow House.” She isn’t, actually. We never do flowers for the New Year’s event, not since Edward and I both grew quite serious about sustainable holiday decorating in our teens. Shipping a massive load of blooms in the dead of winter isn’t environmentally responsible. But we can make an exception. Just this once… “It isn’t a massive event, but the royal family always stops by for dinner before they’re off to their other engagements. And when they do, I’d be happy to mention who did the centerpieces for the table. I hear they haven’t decided who’s doing the flowers for the princess’s wedding summer after next, so…”