Page 99 of Wallflower in Bloom

“You’re the best, Shay.”

She sighed into the speaker with satisfaction. “I am, aren’t I? Ciao!”

He turned to his father, feeling terrible. “I’m so sorry to leave right as you got here, Dad.”

“Oh, it’s no bother. I’ll be here when you return. Will you be gone long?”

“Just a few days. Violet and I have an appearance when we get back.”

Bloom’s sales had skyrocketed since their first Plant Parent Corner, and a local home and garden festival had asked if he and Violet would do a meet and greet in a few weeks. He was so proud she’d said yes without hesitation. Maybe he’d actually helped her with her goal of being more comfortable being the center of attention.

Violet let out a small gasp. “Oh, my plants. The peace lilies I’m prepping need to stay damp for the next week.”

“Don’t you worry, lass. I’m rather handy in the garden. Now”—his dad straightened up—“you tell me exactly what to do while you’re gone.”

“It’s too much. I can ask Gray to handle it.” Violet shook her head with an apologetic smile.

“Nonsense, young lady. You’ve made my son ’appier than I’ve seen ’im in ages. The least I can do is care for all your plant babies.”

“You call them plant babies, too?” Her eyes went wide.

“Well, of course. You grew them from nothin’. You feed n’ care for them; they all have their li’l personalities, like having a strappin’ young lad.”

Violet’s eyes twinkled. “My father didn’t love the flower business. But it still helps me feel near him when I’m out here.”

“Hmm.” Gerald nodded sagely. “I know the feelin’. My nan taught me the secret to courgettes; that’s why I luv ’em. Kept ’em fed durin’ the war. Now tell me about your waterin’ schedule.”

Jack realized with a smile he might not even be needed here. Maybe Violet had found her new best friend, who was, oddly enough, a 62-year-old man from Devon.

After a whirlwind few days of packing and calming a nervous/excited Violet, Jack was happy to be back in his adopted hometown of Vancouver for the film festival. All the drama of their surprise invitation was behind them. Only two days longer, and then he could go back home.

Violet’s home, he corrected himself.

His actual home was 45 minutes across town, but he didn’t want to deprive Violet of the five-star accommodation Wayridge provided. She’d stared at the hot tub on the hotel website as if it was her newborn baby. So, he’d insisted on packing her in her sexy retro-style swimsuit and a plush hotel robe to the spa for a massage and a soak. The next 24 hours would be stressful enough, and she’d been working non-stop since Bloom had exploded.

He paced in their hotel room. After weeks of not hearing back from the mafia show producers, they’d responded that they needed another reading with a third script. They happened to be in Vancouver, and he hoped to squeeze in a meeting before he left, so he’d need to finish this bloody thing.

He hit the delete button on his last take for the 67th time. He expected it to give him a middle finger the next time he pressed record.

Maybe he wasn’t meant to play non-romance roles. Maybe his ability was limited to scowling in posh 18th-century drawing rooms, not able to portray the real drama of an American mafioso that required talent.

The door to the hotel room creaked open, and a blissed-out, pink-cheeked Violet sauntered through the door. Each step was heavy as if her purple flip-flops were made of lead.

“I would like to formally declare my hand in marriage to this hotel chain.” She flopped onto the king-size, fluffy bed, spread out starfish-style.

Fucking adorable. This was how she preferred to sleep, he’d learned. Ironic, given that she took up as little of people’s space as possible when awake. She’d even apologized to the arm of the empty seat next to her for having to put it up to be more comfortable on the flight.

“Why am I suddenly jealous of an international hotel chain?” He leaned down to kiss her hair as he moved a hand over it. She was so incredibly precious.

She beamed up at him with glowing, pink cheeks, her skin dewy after the combination of massage and hot tub. She looked relaxed and happy, at ease with herself for once. There was no one for her to take care of, no chore to do or plant to worry about. He made a mental note to whisk her away for another weekend before he came back to Vancouver permanently.

Permanently. It stung with a bitter taste in his mouth.

Violet propped her head up on her arm. “Get a take you like yet?”

“Ugh, I have a million takes, and I hate all of them,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

“Can I get you some food? Water?”

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