The first time he walked into The Velvet Stem, I thought he was lost. Men like him didn’t buy flowers. Not the kind I sold, anyway.He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, dark and unreadable, like a thunderstorm trapped in a tailored suit. I remember the way his eyes scanned the shop—cold, calculating, as if the roses might bite.“Can I help you?” I asked, trying to sound calm even though my heart was racing.“A bouquet,” he said. “For a funeral.”I reached for the lilies, the safe choice. “I’m sorry for your loss.”He gave a short laugh, but it wasn’t amused. “Don’t be. You didn’t kill him. Did you?”I froze. Just for a second. Then I smiled, the way I always do when I’m nervous. “No. I just arrange flowers.”He watched me like he didn’t believe that. Like he was trying to peel back my skin and read whatever secrets I might be hiding underneath.“Make it black,” he said. “And don’t ask who it’s for.”I didn’t. But I knew then—he’d be back.