Page 15 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

"That was because the mayor's dog ate those wolfsbane cupcakes," Jasper reminds her.

"Details."

Before the debate can gather any more momentum, Clover breezes through the door balancing a tray of slightly lopsided cronuts.

"Peace offering," she announces cheerfully. "Today's maple glaze staged a rebellion."

She spots Mrs. Garcia and immediately leans in.

"Have you heard about the mysterious man in black?"

Mrs. Garcia folds her arms triumphantly.

"I started this conversation."

"I heard he's a priest," Clover says. "One of those mysterious orders where they only wear black and spend all day talking to dead people."

Jasper frowns.

"I don't think priests usually carry themselves like that."

"Like what?"

He considers the question thoughtfully.

". . . He has really nice posture."

I escape to the back room before the laughter wins.

For the rest of the afternoon, Blackthorn Bay continues inventing Grim's biography. Depending on who wanders into the flower shop, he is an insurance adjuster, a government investigator, the mayor's forgotten cousin, a retired spy, or a mortician with unusually expensive tailoring.

The only thing everyone agrees on is that he isn't from around here.

I smile, nod, and listen while quietly adding absolutely nothing useful to the conversation.

If anything, I want answers even more than they do.

So, instead of obsessing over impossible men in impeccably tailored black coats, I throw myself into work.

The morning rush carries us straight through lunch before another funeral order lands on my counter. I reach automatically for purple snapdragons and white stock, barely glancing at the order form before I already know whose name I'll find.

Kilian Vane.

He and his late wife had been regulars years ago, back when Wednesday market days were still a ritual, not a memory. Every solstice he bought lilies despite insisting his wife hated them, and every year I smiled politely while pretending to believe him.

Tucked inside his customer file is a handwritten note in his careful script.

No lilies if I outlive her.

I have always wondered if he'd eventually change his mind.

Now I know he hasn't.

I am sorting through Queen Anne's lace, setting aside the stems with more green than blossom, when the bell above the front door chimes.

I look up . . .

. . . and nearly forget how to breathe.