“You act like the poor boy couldn’t find his way out of a paper sack.”

“Sometimes, I wonder,” I said, depositing the bouquet back in its vase and fiddling with the arrangement.

“Well, good luck. Try not to kill him. I don’t think Mrs. Bennet would ever forgive you.”

“No, her precious golden boy can do no wrong, and she would be unamused if I dumped a can of paint on his head or hog-tied him and hung him up as our first window display. I could put some pansies in his mouth and call it a day.”

I made my way over to his chair and kissed his forehead.

“Have a good day, Daddy. Don’t get into any trouble, all right?”

“I’ll try to contain myself,” he said with a half-smile.

And when I pulled on my Vans and snagged my bag, I was out the door.

We lived around the corner from the flower shop, which sat proudly on Bleeker Street among the shops and cafés of the Village. The July heat hit me like a wall, that heavy humidity that clung to you like an aquatic second skin, the kind of heat that made you forget winter ever existed or what it was like to be comfortable.

The bad news was that it was only eight in the morning.

But there was little that could dampen my cheer. I felt the winds of change—even if I couldn’t feel the actual wind on that still summer day—sensed the beginning of something big, something magnificent. And it was just around the corner.

Presumably behind the old green door of Longbourne.

I pushed open the door to the familiar ting-a-ling of the bell and stopped just inside.

Music floated around the room from a speaker on the register counter. The room, which was usually full of old display tables and buckets of flowers, had been cleaned out but for the massive, square farm table in the center of the room. The black-and-white floor tiles had been covered in plastic sheeting, and two ladders, a pile of supplies, and a bucket with a push broom sat proudly next to one of the long walls.

And beside them was Luke.

He was already glistening with sweat and had shed his shirt, leaving him in nothing but basketball shorts and sneakers. The golden hue of his skin spoke of countless hours of leisure, and the rolling topography of his musculature spoke of countless hours in the gym. I’d always hated basketball shorts, but on Luke Bennet’s ass, they looked like they were meant to be there. I found I didn’t have a single complaint.

Especially not when he turned around and I caught sight of the anaconda he was packing.

God bless the man who invented those shorts.

“Morning, Tess,” he said with that patent smirk of his, hands still on the broom he’d been using to wash the brick.

To my surprise, the surface was filthy—the brick he’d already cleaned was cheery and red and what he hadn’t was a grimy shade of brown.