Page 43 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
“You can wait in the car,” I say, grabbing my purse. “I won’t be long.”
His brows lift. “Why would I wait in the car?”
I pause, unsure how to answer that without sounding… dismissive. “I just thought—you might not want to go inside. It’s a flower shop.”
He laughs and opens his door. “Someone’s gotta hold the bags. Besides, I’m interested in picking out the flowers. At least that way, I can say I was a part of the surprise.”
Before I can argue, he’s out of the car and already opening the shop door for me. A tiny bell jingles overhead as we step into the warmth of the space. It smells like roses and eucalyptus and freshly damp soil. I’ve always loved this place.
We walk down the aisle together, and I start gathering flowers from memory—orange ranunculus, white roses, some blush chrysanthemums.
“What’s that one for?” Cal asks, pointing to the ranunculus in my hand.
“Joy. Admiration,” I say.
He hums. “Seems fitting for forty-eight years of marriage.”
I grab a stem of eucalyptus. “This adds texture and scent. Plus, it symbolizes protection.”
“Romantic and practical,” he says, following close behind.
I reach for white roses. “These are classic.”
“What do they mean?”
“Purity. Loyalty. Everlasting love.”
He places a hand over his heart. “Okay, that one got me.”
I try not to smile too wide, but it’s no use. He’s ridiculous in the most endearing way.
“Are you always like this?” I ask, glancing at him as I gather another bundle.
“Like what?”
“Charming.”
He tilts his head. “Only on Tuesdays.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m laughing now. We keep walking, gathering stems and trading commentary like we’ve done this before—like it’s natural. Like we’re awe. Which is… absurd. But something about this moment, this company—it feels good.
Too good.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
We almost argue by the time we get around to the counter, and Cal offers to pay, but once I tell him I got it, he nods and takes a step back, letting me finish the transaction.
When I finish, he grabs the wrapped bouquet without another word and carries it to the car like it’s made of glass.
We’re barely back on the road when Cal groans beside me.
“Nooo. We’re going to miss Kettle Hour.”
I glance at the clock and laugh. It’s 4:10. “You like it that much?”
“I’ve never looked forward to anything in my life the way I look forward to four p.m. in that front parlor,” he says. “The tea. The scones. The chaos. Especially Imani and Clara.”
I laugh. “They’re the highlight of Kettle Hour for me.”
