Page 62 of Weekends with You

I laughed aloud, though it quickly turned into a defeated sigh. “It’s not that at all, actually. It’s Raja’s weekend, so I don’t want to disappoint her. But as soon as she hears about the opportunity, I’m sure she’ll be chuffed. And frankly, there’s no patching anything up with Henry, and since I’m not sure I can face him just yet, this might be the perfect thing to let me avoid that. For this month, anyway.”

Renee exhaled a sigh even more dramatic than my own. “Thank god,” she laughed. “Because I already said yes and I don’t think I could pull this off without you.”

“Renee!” I said, joining in her laughter. “I guess it’s a good thing you won’t have to.”

“Atta girl. Best get started planning, then. Not a ton of time on this one, I’m afraid.”

“Consider it sorted.”

“Well, that’s good, since their designer is coming by this morning to discuss the plans.”

I faked a gasp. “How’d you know I’d say yes?”

“A bit of wishful thinking and a bit more blind confidence. If you turned this down for a man, you wouldn’t be the employee or the woman I thought you were.”

She smoothed my hair and disappeared into the office, leaving me alone in the studio. I hadn’t given her the full story of what had happened in Amsterdam in the hope of preserving some dignity, so she was still holding out hope that Henry and I might work things out. And for once, she was alone on that one.

I’d break the news that I’d be missing the weekend to the rest of my roommates when I got home, and I’d let someone else break the news to Henry. Not that he would mind. In fact, he’d probably be delighted not to see me. Not that it mattered.

Renee’s words swirled around the back of my mind, and heat crept into my chest at the thought that I might have passed this up if Henry and I had been on good terms. Had he reduced me to the kind of woman who would let a man interfere with her career?

Certainly I wasn’t using this opportunity just to avoid him. I couldn’t have been that woman. I was prioritizing my career, which I had been hoping to advance for quite some time. This was good. Grand, even. Avoidance was merely a bonus.

I busied myself with an anniversary arrangement while I waited for the designer. The pinks and purples of fresh hyacinths signaled the oncoming spring, which seemed a lovely time for an anniversary. The client was an older gentleman, and I imagined the couple renewing their love every year along with the season. It was a beautiful, painful thought.

Floristry was difficult for a million reasons, but one of the worst parts was celebrating someone else’s love life when your own was in the gutter. I would have to create this bouquet likeI hadn’t just been mortified, hurt, and turned off from romance completely. I’d have to remind myself that sometimes it does work out, and that that is worth celebrating. Though I wasn’t sure I believed it at all.

The cylindrical blooms sat high on firm stems, so I cut the canvas paper wrapping low enough for the flowers to be seen from all angles. Some bouquets needed to be snuggled in, protected from prying eyes and harsh elements, but this one demanded to be on display. These were some of the first vibrant colors of the season, and just because I didn’t want to focus on a celebration of love didn’t mean nobody else did.

The bell above the door interrupted my pity party, and I tied the last of the ribbons around the arrangement to refocus myself. Renee emerged from the office to greet the customer, and I wiped my hands on my apron and followed suit.

“Ah, here she is,” Renee said when she saw me. “Lucy, this is Eve. The designer from the Renaissance.” Eve was tall and slender, clad in a tweed blazer and a pair of slim trousers. She had cropped white-blond hair, which emphasized the perfect heart shape of her face. My curls looked even more unruly in comparison, and my apron hardly disguised my oversize cargo pants or my unintentionally distressed jumper.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, offering my hand.

“You as well.”

“Come in, please.” I gestured into the studio, which we both scanned for a clear place for her to sit. “Er, sorry, we don’t usually do much consulting back here.” I cleared a stool, and she pulled her blazer tighter around herself before sitting down.

“You come highly recommended, so I trust you have the experience for this project,” she said.

“Certainly,” I assured her, hoping she couldn’t tell I was lying through my teeth. Maybe not the experience, but I did havethe talent, and wasn’t that what mattered? Besides, there were more pressing things at hand. “May I ask who recommended us, if you don’t mind? We don’t typically have clients in your industry, so I’m keen to know who made the suggestion.”

“Oliver Burton, of course,” she said. “The chef. He said he was an old friend of yours?”

It took a minute to sink in, but then it hit me like a punch to the gut. Bloody hell. It was Oliver. Oliver from New Year’s. Oliver, whom I’d kissed in front of an entire party, including all my roommates, because I had assumed I would never see him again.

“Ah yes,” I said once I’d gathered myself. “Of course.”

How had he remembered this was where I worked? And surely he’d never seen any of my work, so how could he recommend me for his restaurant?

“Please, tell me your vision. I’ll do everything in my power to bring it to life,” I said.

“We’re looking for something bright. Something eye-catching. Something brilliant. But familiar. We want people to feel at home with us, if their homes were a bit more posh and had an elite team of chefs and servers on at all times. We want colors that complement the red awning, maybe yellows or oranges, like a sunset. And nothing too big that it couldn’t still be delicate. Can you do that?”

It was not surprising that she had such a list of demands. The opening was supposed to be rather extravagant, and she seemed like someone who was used to having her every need met. But that was quite a difficult balance to strike.

“Absolutely,” I said, the wheels already beginning to turn.

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