I spend most of my search time looking through images of his paintings. There are a ton of them, all of them gorgeous. I might be biased, but none of them come close to Bridge and Blooms.

When my eyeballs feel like they might burn out of my skull, I close the computer and hunker down for another sleepless night. And as I suspect, my eyes never once manage to stay closed.

Lucy is waiting for me at the shop the next morning, furiously typing away, looking scarily harried, and honestly, I couldn’t be more grateful for the distraction. I haven’t slept at all, and I’m sure my look this morning is zombie chic, minus the chic. Right now, nothing sounds more appealing than a day absorbed in work, avoiding all thoughts of the previous night.

I hand Lucy a cup of coffee. “Everything okay?”

She spins the computer screen around so I can see our completely booked-up calendar for the next two weeks. “Sadie, you must have some kind of luck, because I’m still going through emails and website orders, and look at how many arrangements we’re going to have to make and deliver this week.”

My first reaction is total elation. My second is, Holy fuck, what have I done. “Oh my god, we’re never going to be able to get all of these out on time.” I pull out my phone to text Jack an SOS. I have my messages pulled up before I remember I can’t exactly turn to him for help right now. It’s a sucker punch to the gut. “Fuck.”

“I mean, this is a good problem to have, right?” She raises her perfectly arched eyebrows, turning her attention back to the screen.

“It is, but I don’t think any of my crew are going to be around this week to help. Do you know anyone who could pick up some delivery shifts?” I punch over to my contacts list, scrolling through as if some qualified rando is going to pop out at me.

Lucy’s tapping fingers pause. “Um, I might know someone.”

I shove my phone in my back pocket. “Thank god. Think they could come in and meet me today? Fill out some paperwork?”

She nods, biting her lip. “Sure. It’s my brother, actually.”

“Awesome. He’s over eighteen, yeah?” Heading back to the office to dump my stuff, I continue the conversation in a raised voice thrown over my shoulder.

“He’s thirty actually.”

“Great. Can you call him now?” Back at the worktop, I start pulling out bottles, laying everything out on the counter so I can see what we have on hand.

“Sure.” She gives me a long look. “But I should probably let you know up front that he’s got a record, convicted felon.”