“Oh.” It’s the only word I can form right now because I think Jack Thomas just revealed something about himself. And it does something to soothe the leftover sting on my heart. “Well, it suits you.”

“Thanks.” He spins his coaster around on the table, not meeting my eyes. “Is it cool if I just hang here until you’re off?”

“It’s going to be a while. I’ve still got cleanup and stuff to do.” I gesture to the tables around me, which are suddenly all empty and sparkling clean.

“I don’t mind waiting.” His gaze finds mine, those green eyes boring into me.

And suddenly I can’t breathe. Suddenly, I don’t mind waiting doesn’t feel like a casual phrase among friends. I move a step closer to him, like there’s some kind of magnetic force in his words.

“Sadie! Grab that glass and let’s get the fuck out of here!” my bar partner, Sam, hollers across the room, pulling me out of my haze.

I give Jack a tentative smile. He returns it just as tentatively.

Then he chugs his beer and hands me the glass.

I take it with me back behind the bar, dunking it in soapy water before rinsing it clean and hand-drying it. Sam hands me a stack of cash I don’t bother counting, shoving it in the back pocket of my tight jeans. I clock out, say my goodbyes, and gesture for Jack to meet me at the front door.

The streets are mostly empty of late-night walkers, or as empty as New York streets can ever really get. The evening air is warm, not too sticky, and there’s even a slight breeze as we head the couple of blocks back to the brownstone.

Jack walks with his hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t know exactly what to do with them. “How was your first delivery today?”

A smile breaks across my face. I’d meant to regale the whole crowd with the story, but since I spent most of the night avoiding them, I didn’t really get the chance. “It was amazing. She loved it and told me she’d definitely order from me again and tell all her friends.” Pulling my phone from my crossbody purse, I open up Instagram. “And the photo of the arrangement got a shit-ton of likes.”

“Is that the official measurement these days?” He takes the phone from me, squinting a little as he studies the picture.

I placed the bouquet in one of the bottles I cut a couple of weeks ago, a gin bottle with a cool old-timey label on it. The flowers themselves are an explosion of color and texture, bright pink dahlias and orange and yellow ranunculus. I photographed it sitting on the table in front of the bay window in my room, and the colors pop against the white walls.

“Wow, Sadie, this is impressive.”