King George III. I’m not sure how much more pretentious he can be. George Beaumont, or Georgie as Mercedes calls him, is the third George in his family but the play on the name for his shop irritates me.

I reel it in, though. I’m doing this for Mercedes. I need to give her this.

King George III is hard to miss. Its exterior is candy pink, the door standing open, about a thousand multi-colored roses serve as a canopy over the entrance of the trendy shop and even before I enter, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer amount of color and sweet scent pouring out of the place.

From inside, a man laughs, and it grates on my nerves. I’m sure that’s Georgie.

I try not to scowl as two customers walk out, a middle-aged woman and her daughter I’d guess. They’re holding a bouquet and from the bits and pieces of conversation I hear, he’s providing the flowers at the younger woman’s wedding.

Once they’re gone, I enter the shop, which is not big but so overfull it would be too much anywhere else. The way Georgie has it laid out, though, I admit, it’s well done if a little much. Like a vomiting of color all around and above me with the drying flowers hanging upside down in various shades. When I reach the front of the shop, I find Georgie himself standing behind the counter studying me.

“Welcome to King George III,” he says with not quite the warmth he showed the two women who just left.

“Thank you,” I say, studying him, too. He looks different in person than he does in his photos. I guess I’d made up a personality based on his text exchanges with Mercedes but he’s more serious here. Or maybe he’s just more serious now that I’m in the shop and he senses something.

“Can I help you?”

“I’d like some flowers.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Well, you’re in the right place,” he says and checks his watch. “But I am closing early this afternoon so if you can let me know the occasion or if you have something special in mind, I can help you.”

I hadn’t thought about this.

“A budget, perhaps?” he asks when I don’t answer right away. His eyes move over my bespoke suit.

That’s when I glance at the framed photo on the counter. On top is a handwritten note asking, ‘have you seen me?’ with an arrow pointing down to Mercedes’s smiling face.