Page 39 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

She leads me toward the workbench where a single slice of cake sits abandoned beside an open ledger, sunlight catching the frosting like polished marble.

She offers me the fork.

I shake my head.

“Suit yourself.” She takes another bite before pointing the fork at me. “So... did I come on too strong, or did you just ghost me for the poetry of it?”

She says it lightly, but there is enough honesty beneath the joke to make my chest tighten.

In the warm, familiar comfort of her flower shop, surrounded by every celebration and farewell a bouquet has ever marked, the truth suddenly feels impossible to speak.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I… needed time.”

She studies me for a heartbeat longer.

Then she nods.

“Okay.”

Just that.

No lecture.

No guilt.

No demand for an explanation.

She simply reaches for a bucket of chrysanthemums and drags it onto the workbench.

“I’ve dated worse,” she says. “You know what they say. If you love something, let it ignore you for several days, then show up looking like it hasn't slept and smelling faintly of swamp.”

I laugh before I can stop myself.

“I do tend to haunt.”

That earns another smile.

“You want to make it up to me?”

You are going to vaporize this poor woman.

Still, I nod.

She sweeps an arm dramatically toward the back room, where a line of empty vases waits beside bundles of flowers.

“See those? Two dozen 'sunny but dignified' centerpieces for a corporate luncheon. They're all yours. I'll even let you use the good scissors.”

For a moment, I simply stand there.

Being put to work—her quiet way of forgiving me, or perhaps simply resetting the balance between us—feels oddly comforting.

I move toward the workbench while she watches with her chin resting in her hands, wearing that same soft, impossible expression.

The first time I ever touched a human soul, I wasn't prepared for the warmth that lingered long after they had gone. I find echoes of that same warmth here, in the tools she uses every day, in the stems she has already trimmed, in the faint imprint of her hands upon the work itself.

I begin arranging flowers one stem at a time, letting the rhythm quiet my thoughts. Yellow tulips. Clementine ranunculus. Soft greenery to frame them. It is nothing like the wreaths I spent centuries watching people lay upon coffins.

After a few minutes, Lavinia slips in beside me carrying a roll of floral tape.