Page 8 of Claimed By the Grumpy Shifter

"What's the occasion?" I ask as I flip on the lights and start my opening routine.

He follows me into the shop, and immediately the space feels smaller. He's so big, so intensely male, that everything else seems to shrink in comparison. The delicate flowers look even more fragile next to his scarred hands, the pastel walls more feminine against his dark clothing.

"No occasion," he says, watching me move around the shop with that laser focus that should make me uncomfortable but somehow doesn't. "I just... like the way they smell."

I pause in the middle of adjusting a display of white roses, surprised by the unexpected answer. "You like the way flowers smell?"

"I like the way you smell when you're around them."

The confession is so blunt, so honest, that it steals the breath right out of my lungs. I turn to stare at him, and the heat in his amber eyes makes my knees weak.

"I..." I have no idea how to respond to that.

No one has ever said anything remotely like that to me before. It's intimate and strange and exactly the kind of thing that should send me running, but instead, it makes me want to step closer.

"Sorry," he says, though he doesn't look particularly sorry. "That was too direct."

"No, it's... it's fine." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, a nervous habit I've never been able to break. "What kind of flowers were you thinking?"

He moves closer. "What do you recommend?"

"Well," I say, trying to focus on business instead of the way his presence seems to fill every corner of the shop, "it depends on what you want them for. Are they for your home? A gift?"

"A gift," he says immediately.

My heart sinks a little. Of course they're for a gift. A man like Marc probably has women throwing themselves at him left and right. I'm an idiot for thinking—

"For someone special?" I ask, proud that I manage to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

"Very special." His eyes never leave my face. "Someone I want to get to know better."

"Oh." I clear my throat, trying to ignore the way my pulse is racing. "Well, for someone you want to get to know better, I'd suggest something simple but meaningful. Maybe roses, but not red. That's too forward for early in a relationship. Pink would be nice, or—"

"What's your favorite?" he interrupts.

"My favorite what?"

"Flower. What's your favorite flower?"

The question catches me off guard. "I... why?"

"Just curious."

"Peonies," I say finally. "I love peonies. They're soft and romantic, and they smell incredible, but they're also resilient. Stronger than they look."

"Peonies," he repeats. "Do you have any?"

"It's not really the season for them, but I have some preserved ones in the back. They're not fresh, but they're still beautiful."

"I'll take them."

"You don't even know how much they cost."

"I don't care."

Who buys flowers without asking about the price? Who looks at a woman like she's the answer to every question he's ever had?

Marc Steel, apparently.

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