For most florists, business is slow throughout the month of July. The Enchanted Florist is no different.

Without any big holidays like Valentine’s Day or Mother’s Day, demand for bouquets is minimal. Wedding activity slows down too.

Of course, we continue to get orders for apology arrangements and funeral wreaths. Stupidity and death create year-round demand, but no one will be ordering flowers for my funeral any time soon, thanks to Leo and his liver.

I slide my hand under the bleached canvas apron. Through the thin cotton of my navy blue peplum top, I can feel the ridges of my T-shaped scar. It’s a constant reminder how lucky I was ... how lucky I am.

I’m almost my old self—the Tessa I was before my liver started to fail. I still tire easily, but by the time business picks up in mid-August, I’ll be back to one hundred percent.

Every year, I take advantage of the July slowdown to give my shop a mini-makeover. Usually, it’s something small, like updating the artwork on the exposed brick walls or relocating a few displays. Last year, my project was a little bigger: switching out the dingy vinyl floor tiles and tinting the concrete underneath.

The slow month also allows me to recharge my creativity by playing around with different types of flowers—sizes, shapes, and colors. Right now, I’m standing at my scarred oak worktable in the middle of the shop, arranging a summer bouquet that combines sunflowers and blue delphiniums. If it turns out well, I’ll post pictures on the shop’s social media accounts.

Cassie comes out of the back room, where we keep our supplies and unboxed inventory. She’s hefting a galvanized metal bucket overflowing with bright pink peonies. Too bad they’re not white; then I could have used them in my bouquet.

Her side-swept bangs are blocking her eyes. She shakes her head like a wet dog, and her long chestnut ponytail flies over her shoulder. The wispy strands impeding her vision don’t budge though, and with a huge puff of air, she blows them away.

My parents brought Cassie into our family when I was five and she was two. I was excited to have a sister, but so scared that she would take all the love from my mom and dad. I was too young to understand that they had plenty for both of us. 

“Where should I put these?” she asks, lifting the bucket.

I consider her question. “Maybe in the hot air balloon?”

Near the front of the shop, a miniature replica of a vintage hot air balloon hangs from the ceiling. I discovered it at an estate sale a couple of years ago.

The previous owner had carefully packed the silver-and-gold-striped envelope so it was in near perfect condition. The wicker basket was a little damaged, but still nice enough to display flowers.

With an agreeable nod, Cassie lugs the bucket toward the hot air balloon. I’m grateful for her assistance because I’m not supposed to carry anything heavier than five pounds for another three months.

This isn’t the first time my sister has helped me. She always pitches in when I have a special event or a big holiday. (My whole family works on Valentine’s Day, taking orders, arranging bouquets of red roses, and delivering them.)

Even if I weren’t still recovering from transplant surgery, Cassie would probably still be hanging around the shop. She teaches primary school, and she gets bored when twenty little kids aren’t demanding her attention.

I tuck another bloom into my bouquet before making my way to Cassie. A few peonies remain in the bucket next to her feet. As I bend over to grab them, my sister says, “Don’t you dare.”

“Shut up, Cassiopeia,” I reply, purposely using the nickname she hates. I can’t let her forget I’m the big sister here. “It’s not going to kill me to pick up a few flowers.” To prove my point, I pluck the peonies from the bucket. “See ... still alive.”

I hear the little chime that signals the opening of the front door and look over my shoulder. I briefly see a man’s silhouette before he steps into the shop. As the door swings shut, my mind catches up with my eyes. Shock forces a gasp out of me.

Leo is in my flower shop, within touching distance. And oh, God, I really want to touch.

He takes a few steps until he’s right in front of me. Wearing a beige linen suit over a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt accented with a vibrant orange tie, he’s bigger and taller than I remember. Handsomer too.

Tessa, you idiot. Handsomer is not a word.

Leo squats in front of me, and when he rises, he’s holding a handful of peonies. I hadn’t realized I dropped them.

“Hello, Tessa.”

I have to swallow hard before I can speak. “Hello, Leo.”

He takes my hand in his own and places the peonies in my palm. With his fingers over mine, he gently closes my fist around the green stems. Tingles skip up and down my arm.

A loud clang startles me, and I jerk my head toward the noise. “Oops,” Cassie mutters before righting the galvanized metal bucket she knocked over.

Remembering that Leo and my sister have never met, I say, “Leo, this is my little sister, Cassandra Lulach. Cassie, this is Leo...” I look up at him, completely at a loss. “What’s your last name? Do you have one?”

He slowly releases my hand. “I have four surnames.”

“Three weren’t impressive enough?”

His lips twitch. “Apparently not.”

When I was born, my mother dropped me at a fire station with nothing more than a blanket. I had no name, no family, no home.

When Leo was born, the entire country celebrated with a parade. He had a name—several, in fact. He had a family, one that has ruled Alsania for more than two hundred years. And he had a home, technically a palace. 

Leo extends his right hand to Cassie and rattles off his full name. It’s so long I can’t tell where one ends and the next begins.

“How can you remember all that?”

A smile curves his mouth. “My mother made up a song when I was little.”

I try to picture Queen Eleanor writing a little ditty to help her son remember his ridiculously long and hard-to-pronounce surnames, but I can’t. She’s always so controlled ... so royal ... just like her older son.

I want to ask Leo more about his mother and his childhood, but this isn’t the right time or place. I wonder if there will ever be a right time or place. 

Now that the introductions are over, it’s awkward. Compelled to fill the silence, I say, “I’m surprised to see you, Leo. Are you here for me, or do you need an ‘I’m sorry I acted like a jerk’ bouquet for a girlfriend?”

I have no idea why I added that last bit about the girlfriend. Liar. Of course I know why: I want to know if Leo is seeing someone, even casually.

His eyes lock on mine. “I don’t need an ‘I’m sorry I acted like a jerk’ bouquet.”

Damn. I wanted him to say, I don’t have a girlfriend.

“So you give ‘I’m sorry I acted like a jerk’ jewelry?” I tease.  

He huffs out a laugh. “Exactly.” His gaze bounces around my shop. “Is there a place we can speak privately?”

“You can use Tessa’s office in the back,” Cassie suggests. “I’ll take care of things up here.”

Leo nods. “Perfect.” He waves his hand toward the side. “Lead the way, Tessa.”

As I take the first step toward my office, Leo’s hand settles on my lower back, just below my apron ties. I’ve read articles about body language, and I know what his action means—he feels protective of me. Maybe even possessive. I can only hope.  

“Prince Leo...” Cassie says from behind us. 

We stop mid-step and turn to face her. “Yes, Miss Lulach?” Leo asks, his voice princely and polite.

Cassie’s deep blue gaze is focused on him. “Thank you for saving my sister’s life.”

A wave of love crashes over me. Cassie and I have always been close, and I know my death scare absolutely wrecked her.

I’m not the only one with scars from my transplant. My parents and sister have scars too—emotional scars. I’m hoping time will heal us all.

I sense Leo’s eyes on me, and I look up. His midnight gaze skips over my face before returning to Cassie.

“I’m glad I was able to help her,” he says.

As I lead Leo through the back room, my heart pounds and my mind races. What does he have to say that couldn’t be said over the phone?

Technically, my office is a storage closet that I’ve repurposed. It’s large enough for the metal desk I bought at IKEA, an office chair, a tall filing cabinet, and that’s about it.

“I don’t spend a lot of time in here,” I tell Leo. “I do all my client meetings in the front of the shop.” I roll the chair to the other side of the desk. “Have a seat.”

He lifts one eyebrow. “And where are you going to sit?”

“On your lap.” His eyes widen, and I can’t help laughing. “I’m just teasing you.”

I clear a space on my desk and slide onto it. My denim-covered legs dangle in front of the empty office chair.

Touching the toe of my mint-green ballet flat to the mesh seat, I say, “Sit.”

He unbuttons his suit jacket and folds his tall body into the chair. His posture is perfect: spine straight and brown wing tips flush with the floor.

Being alone with him in such a small space makes my stomach tremble and my hands shake. I curl my fingers over the edge of the desk, using the cold metal to hide my nerves.

“So tell me ... what’s so important you came all the way into the city to see me?”

During one of our late-night calls, I asked Leo where he was, and he explained that he and the rest of the royal family spend the summer in the country. I guess only commoners stay in Circo when the temperature rises above eighty-five.

“I wanted to let you know that I’m going to do a media tour to talk about my experience as a living donor,” Leo says.

Surprised by his announcement, I emit an involuntary “Oh!”

The royal family is constantly in the news. From the king’s work in parliament and the queen’s charitable efforts to Prince Leo’s diplomatic trips abroad and Prince Marco’s latest antics, there’s plenty of fodder for the media.

“People are curious, and I’d rather they hear the real story from me instead of”—he makes air quotes with both hands—“an unnamed source close to the prince. Who knows? Maybe I can persuade more people to be living donors.”

“That’d be amazing if you could, Leo. There aren’t enough donors, living or deceased.”

He leans forward. “How would you feel about participating in the media tour ... coming forward as a transplant recipient?”

It takes a moment for his words to register. When they do, my whole body recoils. “I don’t know...”

I trail off, unable to articulate my feelings. If my donor liver came from a normal person instead of Leo, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell everyone my story. But Leo’s royal blood—his position as the future king of Alsania—complicates things. The thought of being stalked by paparazzi makes it hard for me to breathe.

“Hey.” One of Leo’s big hands curves over my knee. “Listen to me, Tessa.” He squeezes lightly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. It’s your decision.”

I shrug uncomfortably. “I need some time to think about it. Is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay.”

He drops his hand from my knee and rises from the chair. His broad chest blocks my view of the rest of the room, and I have to tilt my head back to see his eyes.

To my surprise, he moves closer and cups his hands around my face. His skin is hot and supple like the leather seats in a sports car in the summer. He strokes the pads of his thumbs across my cheekbones, and that simple touch spreads heat throughout my body.

“Look at you.” His voice is deep and husky. “Your cheeks are so pink.”

Pink from desire. Pink from excitement.

One of his thumbs cruises down to my mouth and skims across my bottom lip. “And your lips...”

I must be having an out-of-body experience. Or maybe I’m in a medically induced coma and this is just a hallucination. I don’t know how else to explain what’s happening.

“What about my lips?”

“They’re pink too,” he whispers, “like those peonies you dropped.”

I wrap my hands around his wrists, not to push him away but to keep him close. “Leo...”

Kiss me. Please. Now.

A groan rumbles in his chest, and that rough sound creates an ache between my legs. Sliding his hand into my hair, he palms my head and brings his mouth to mine.

For a heartbeat, our lips press together in a gentle kiss. But then his hand tightens in my hair, and he tugs my head back to give him better access to my mouth. He licks my top lip and then the bottom before tracing the seam where they meet.

I open my mouth in invitation, and he slides his tongue inside. Oh, he tastes good, like the glass of expensive merlot I drank at a wine tasting earlier this year—hints of black cherry and dark chocolate. I could get drunk on him.

He kisses me until I’m breathless and dizzy. I gasp against his mouth, sucking in air, before his mouth opens wider over mine and our tongues tangle in a slow, wet slide.

When he sucks on my tongue, pulling it into his mouth, I think about him doing the same to my clit. I’m wet and swollen, and I know it wouldn’t take more than a brush of his long fingers to make me come. I can’t stop the moan that works its way out of my throat.

Leo lifts his mouth from mine. His fingers loosen and slip out of my hair, allowing me to bring my head forward.

“Tessa.”

“Hmm?” I ask, preoccupied with his kiss-reddened lips.

He takes a couple of steps backward, putting space between us. “Let me know what you decide about the media tour. The first interviews are scheduled for later this week.”

The shift from making out to media tours is more than a little jarring. “O-o-okay,” I stutter.

He buttons his jacket with a deft flick of his fingers. “Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to meet with me. I’m quite pleased you’re doing so well.”

I’d be doing a lot better if your tongue was still in my mouth and your hand was in my panties.

The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them whole. “The media tour...” I slide off the desk to stand in front of him. “Do you want me to participate in it?”

I emphasized you because I want to know if the request is coming from Leo or the royal PR team. He opens his mouth, but then closes it without saying anything.

I give him a tremulous smile. “If you want me to do the media tour with you, I will. You saved my life, Leo. I owe you.”

Something hot flares in his gaze, but it’s gone too quickly for me to figure out what it was. Anger? Lust?

“You don’t owe me anything,” he replies, his tone curt and clipped. “It’s your life ... your decision.”

He strides to the office door and opens it. He glances back at me. With his eyes pinning me in place, he says, “You don’t owe me anything, Tessa.”

He steps over the threshold, and then he’s gone without another word.