Page 40 of Better Hate than Never

She pats my back. “It’s just a morning handling sales, taking a couple photos, then you can crawl home and back into bed.”

“Why?” I moan against the counter. “Why did I say yes to this?”

“Because you’re broker than broke and secretly you love the Edgy Envelope, maybe even more than me.”

“It’s Toni and his baked goods. And Sula plying me with samples; you know I’m a sucker for samples. And working with you.” I nudge her shoulder. “That doesn’t totally suck.”

“Life at the Edgy Envelope is pretty spectacular, especially with Toni’s cookies.”

Pushing off the counter, I groan and stomp past her toward the sobering hot shower calling my name. “There better be a platter of Toni’s cookies the size of Texas waiting for me when we get there.”

—

There is not, in fact, a platter of cookies the size of Texas waiting for me at the shop. But, like a hangover-cure miracle, sitting on the glass-top desk, beside sparkling delicate gold chains, colorful bricks of artisanal chocolates, and a precarious tower of hand-poured, zodiac-themed candles, is a massive pastry box tied with twine,nanette’sstamped on the lid.

Beside it sits a bouquet so grand and elegant it looks like a Dutch still life painting, a masterpiece of color palette, texture, and composition.

My stomach plummets when I see the name on the card and tug it from its perch, wedged inside the breathtaking flowers.

Katerina

“Look at this!” Toni says, easing open the box. The aroma of savory herbs in a rich buttery quiche, maple glaze, and pumpkin spice wafts into the air.

Bea swats away his hand. “Back off!”

“What? I just checked what was inside.”

She jabs her finger toward the card bearing my name. “It’s forher.”

“How was I supposed to know that? The name’s on the card in the flowers, not written on the box!”

“Shhh. My head,” Bea whines. “Your voice hurts.”

“Excuse me for having a voice box. And by the way,yourvoice hurts, too. You’re not the only one who hit the booze a little hard last night—”

“Then stop yelling!” Bea yells.

“Sweet Jesus!” I stare at them, wide-eyed with exasperation. “Would you two just shove some pastries in your mouths and hush? You’re like an old married couple with low blood sugar.”

Grumbling, they open the box and poke around in it. I shove a hand in the box, too, and pull out the first thing I find, a tiny glazed doughnut hole that smells like cardamom and vanilla.

“Toni.” I flick the card toward the bouquet. “Who delivered this and the pastries?”

Toni turns my way, tugging back his dark hair into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck, presumably to avoid getting it in the massive cinnamon bun he’s about to chow down on. “Some delivery person on a bike showed up right as I did to open.” He shrugs. “No one I knew or recognized.”

I stare at the card, the deep, slanted handwriting that’s shaky and jagged around the edges, and slide my thumb along the letters. I wonder if it was written by someone at the flower shop wherethis bouquet came from, if the person who sent it wrote it themselves.

I wonder what made their hand shake as they wrote. I hope it wasn’t pain.

With some kind of gut sense there’s more to the card, I flip it over and stare at the words, written in that same unsteady, craggy writing.

Better hate than never, for never too late.

“Ooh!” Toni gasps around a bite of cinnamon roll. “Poetry?”

“I don’t know.” I stare at the words, trying to make sense of them.

Bea frowns and peers closer. She’s got a fleck of quiche on her cheek that she brushes off. “Why does that look familiar?”

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