Page 10 of Veil of Smoke

Before I can move, he reaches and lifts the slip.

The tips of my fingers twitch.

“Red Thorn.” He reads it slowly. “Huh. That your new supplier?”

I keep my voice steady. “Wrong order. Not mine.”

He flips it over. Blank back. Sets it down slowly. Not in the drawer. On the counter, where it catches light.

“Weird thing to send to a florist,” he says, but he’s not curious—he’s waiting for me to flinch.

“Must’ve been a mix-up,” I reply.

His head tilts, just slightly. The way someone does when they hear the right lie and pretend it’s enough.

“Weird things tend to mean something in this city.”

He steps back toward the door, bouquet of roses in hand. Doesn’t ask for ribbon. Doesn’t ask for a receipt.

At the threshold, he turns.

“You should be careful, Viviana.”

His voice dips just enough to catch.

“Some flowers have thorns.”

The bell rings behind him as he leaves.

The rain comes in sheets now. Grey water slicks the sidewalk out front, and the gutter near the curb is already flooding with dead leaves. Every few minutes the wind shoves at the door like it wants in.

Inside, it’s warm. Not cozy—just functional. The scent of eucalyptus and bruised stems hangs in the air from the orders I finished earlier. The playlist hums along, another instrumental track drifting out of the speakers. I haven’t touched the volume since yesterday.

I’m in the back room, sorting through white peonies for the Moreno wedding. They want soft, romantic, elegant—something that says spring even though Chicago is doing its best impression of November. My apron’s streaked with green, and my knuckles are raw from handling cold buckets.

I line up five stems and press the blooms gently. Three pass. Two are already turning.

The bell above the front door rings.

I don’t react right away.

Then I do. Slowly.

I wipe my hands on a towel and step into the front.

There’s a man standing near the entrance. Hood up. Hands in the pockets of a dark jacket. He’s tall—over six feet, easy. Broad. He’s looking around, not at the flowers, not like a customer. His eyes skim the corners of the shop, the counter, the space behind it.

He doesn’t move like someone who’s here to buy flowers.

“Hi,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Help you find something?”

He looks up. I catch a partial view of his face beneath the hood. Pale skin. Shaved jaw. A faint scar cutting through one of his brows.

“Bathroom,” he says.

“We don’t have one for customers.”

He nods slowly, like he heard but doesn’t really care. He steps deeper into the shop. Past the tulip bar. Past the hanging orchids. Closer to the register.

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