Page 63 of One Wrong Move

“Harp,” she repeats and walks toward me. “I’ve always wondered why you call me that. Like the instrument.”

“What nicknames do people usually call you?”

“I’ve never had a nickname. My name doesn’t really— oh. Wow.”

I follow her inside, and the cool, thickly scented air is the first thing that hits me. Describing it as floral would be an understatement. It smells of plants—cut stems and leaves, and blooming flowers.

Vendors have set up their stalls, with bunches upon bunches of cut flowers displayed in the large hall. It’s a mélange of bright colors and deep greens, creating a beautiful tapestry.

“Oh my God,” Harper breathes. “A flower market?”

“Yes. They open at 4 a.m.”

I glance down at her. She appears stunned, and I can’t help but wonder what her expression means. Good idea?

Her face slowly breaks into a wide smile, and she walks forward in awe; hydrangeas in various colors on either side of her. “This is incredible. I didn’t know this existed!”

“It’s a wholesale market, I believe. Selling primarily to other retailers, to hotels, movie sets, that sort of thing.” I follow her and notice the curious eyes of a few vendors. Right.

I am in a tux.

Harper stops at the stall selling giant palms and runs her hand over the glossy green fronds. “I want them all,” she says.

I slowly undo my bowtie, leaving it hanging around my neck. Unfasten the top two buttons of my shirt. “Then, we’ll get all of them.”

She giggles and moves on to a large fern. “Your house is big, Connovan, but not that big. Oh, look!”

She moves on to a stall with tulips in every possible shade. I trail her through the market. When she’s distracted by a large selection of hydrangeas, I approach a vendor who sells peonies.

“Give me the largest bunch you have,” I say.

“How many hours till you get them into some water?”

Shit. I glance at my watch. “At least four.”

He nods and wraps the flowers up tightly. Glances behind me at Harper and smiles at me. “Good job, mate. Taking your girl to a flower market after a night out.”

I glance back at Harper. She’s out of earshot, talking animatedly to a woman running another stall. She looks happy.

My girl.

“Thanks,” I tell the vendor. I don’t correct him, even if pretending like she’s mine is the sweetest form of torture.

Harper’s eyes widen when I hand her the bouquet. Her gaze darts from the flowers to me and back again in rapid succession.

“Really?”

“Really,” I say. Run a hand through my hair and look away, like this is nothing at all.

She takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent. Her sparkling eyes meet mine. “These are my favorite flowers.”

“I know,” I say. The words escape, revealing far more than I’d planned. But they are there. Hanging in the fragrant air between us.

She glances back down at the bouquet. “You do?”

I swallow. “You mentioned it once. At Josh’s wedding.”

“Oh. That’s right.”

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