‘FLOWERS, TEA, COFFEE ... OR BOOKS?’ The words rolled off my tongue with a melodic sound. It felt like the millionth time I had said it. I sighed inwardly.

The tall, dark-haired man standing before me lifted his chin and looked down at me. He narrowed his green eyes and loosened his tie. My skin prickled, and I stiffened.

‘Flowers, and ... chocolates,’ he said, his voice like velvet. He blinked once. He was the colour of pure red, like a high-performance sports car—fast and dangerous.

I watched him with caution. He was too smooth. ‘For an anniversary?’ I asked.

‘An apology,’ he said, blinking on the word apology, and in the moment afterward, blinking multiple times. Liar ...

Oh, I mouthed. Of course it would be an apology for his type. ‘How big an apology?’

He hung his head and smirked. Conflicting words and action. Warning bells rang.

‘That bad?’ And good?

‘Worse!’ he said.

Had he been unfaithful? ‘Do you still love her?’

He narrowed his eyes at me again. ‘She’s my wife, my life ... I need her,’ he choked on his words.

Yes, he’d been unfaithful ... ‘Then you need a bouquet of sincere apology. Do you want them delivered?’

‘Yes.’

‘No!’ I said, a little louder than I intended. I gazed around at the people in the flower store, looking at me. I lowered my voice. ‘The personal touch is best. Give them to her yourself. It will mean ... more.’

He nodded. ‘You’re right.’

Of course, I’m right. I knew a thousand reasons why men gave flowers to women! ‘Would you like coffee while I prepare the best apology you have ever made?’

He pushed his hands into his pockets and looked to his right at the florist café where our barista stood. ‘Sure.’

I watched as he walked over to Darcy and ordered.

Do not judge. Everyone makes mistakes ... but was it a mistake? Or had he just been caught?

I went to the workbench of flower imagination, tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear then busied myself preparing his order—white tulips and soft pink hyacinth with a few green leaves here and there, the green stems wrapped with a gorgeous pale pink ribbon. I added exquisite hand-made chocolates. a white-lined gift bag to amplify their magnificence, then inhaled the scent of the hyacinths—floral, light, delicate, old-fashioned, sweet, sensual, fresh—spring-like. I hoped it wasn’t more than he deserved. 

I leaned over to cut a length of ribbon to tie to the handle of the bag to finish my work of flower art. When I looked up he was standing in front of me, eyes on my chest.

A shiver ran down my spine and I straightened at once. I pulled the top of my work dress and apron higher.

Bastard.

I pushed the ribbon to the side. I had done enough for this person with the XY chromosomes. Y, mathematically speaking, is the unknown. And that is why I can never trust an unknown male. Y also equalled “why?” The answer is almost entirely explained with the treatment of women as sexual objects by some men, or their need to feel powerful because they are pitiful cowards. Bastard.

I picked up his bouquet of apology and walked to the sales desk. He followed behind me. Too closely.

‘Cash or card?’ I raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

‘Card,’ he said. His eyes widened. ‘Make that cash. How much?’ His words came in a flurry.

Hmmm. An untraceable transaction. What tangled web is he weaving? ‘How much do you have?’

He opened his wallet. ‘Seventy-five bucks and a few coins.’

I shook my head. ‘You’ll have to use your card. It’s eighty-five bucks for this special, apologetic order, sir. It’s imbued with a thousand apologies and a melody of love,’ I said, ready to puke on him.

He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll give you $75.00 now, and bring the remainder later.’ He reached forward to pick up the flowers.

I pushed the flowers to the side, away from him. ‘Since you’re such a lovely man who wants to win over his wife’s heart, I’d like to say yes, but store policy won’t allow me to. I’m sorry, sir ...’ I said, trying to rein in my sarcasm as I held out my hand for the card. 

He searched through each of his suit pockets, tapping each one. He paused, then pulled out ten dollars, and smirked at me like he had just won the lottery. He handed over the money.

‘Thank you, and ... good luck with your apology.’ I tilted my head to the side with a fake, sweet smile, and gave him the flowers and chocolates. My stomach bubbled with nausea filled with repulsive bile.

The moment he stepped out of the shop I let out an exasperated breath. I looked down to the top of my dress that my grandmother had chosen as the florist’s store uniform. Part of my chest scar was visible. Damn! I repositioned my dress and shook my head, hating that fact that I had been damaged for life—three years ago when I was twenty-two, on that terrible day of the scars. My eyes burned. 

The tapping sound of Gram’s shoes became louder. I watched her approach me with a spring in her step. She was the colour of light pink—love, affection and romance ... full of peace, hence her flower store. When she stopped before me I plastered a pretend smile on my face. I didn’t want her to see my sadness.

‘That tulip and hyacinth bouquet was beautiful, Andi. And a nice fifty-dollar sale to end the day!’

‘Pity he didn’t read the sign.’ I pointed to the flower menu behind me that clearly listed personal flower art for $50.00. ‘I charged him eighty-five bucks. Fifty for the flowers for him, and thirty-five, revenge for his wife.’ I smiled at Gram. This time it was genuine.

‘Hmmm. Maybe I can make a florist out of my steel-capped boot wearing granddaughter after all?’

I looked down at my brown steel-capped safety boots. They didn’t match any of the floral dresses I had to wear as a uniform in Flowers for Fleur, but they guaranteed me a powerful, painful kick to the groin of any man to protect myself. 

I removed my apron and hung it on the hook on the wall behind the sales desk. I kissed Gram’s cheek and gave her a warm embrace. ‘See you tomorrow when the sun peeks at the new day and whispers, “Good morning!”’