Page 28 of Almost Enough

“Whitley.” His voice is low, rougher than usual.

“Hmm?” I keep my tone light, my focus on stirring cream into my mug.

“About last night⁠—”

“Water under the bridge,” I interrupt brightly. “No worries at all. We’ve got work to do.”

I finally look at him, my smile firmly in place. It doesn’t reach my eyes, but most people don’t notice the difference.

Beau isn’t most people. His gaze tracks over my face, lingering just a beat too long, searching for something.

“You didn’t let me finish,” he says quietly.

“Really, it’s fine.” I wave a dismissive hand. “We’ve got more important things to worry about. This wedding isn’t going to coordinate itself.”

He sets his mug down with a deliberate thud. “It’s not fine.”

I blink, caught off guard by the firmness in his voice. “Look, I get it. You’re not a fan of chatter. Message received.”

“That’s not—” He rakes a hand through his hair, frustration etched in the lines of his face. “I was being an asshole.”

“Wow. A full sentence confession.” I try for lightness, but it falls flat. “Really, it’s okay. I talk too much. Always have.”

“You weren’t too much. You…aren’t too much, Whitley.”

His words hang in the air between us. Simple. Direct. And somehow exactly what I needed to hear.

I swallow hard, fingers tightening around my mug. “Well…good to know.”

I don’t know why that makes my vision go watery again, but it does. I blink hard and look away, desperate to keep it together.

Beau studies me from his post at the counter, dark eyes so steady it almost hurts. He waits, like he knows I’ll fill the silence, eventually.

When I finally meet his gaze, he’s not looking through me or past me. Just at me. Like he’s actually seeing me, flaws and fragments and all.

“I should probably apologize for crashing your alone time. You seem like a guy who’s allergic to sleepovers.”

“That’s not it,” he says. “I just don’t want you thinking you have to fill every second of silence for me.”

“Oh,” I say, unsure what to do with the truth of it. “That’s unfortunately my default setting.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t have to be.”

The coffee feels too hot in my hand suddenly, scalding against my palm as I try to process his words. Before I can say anything else, my phone buzzes frantically on the counter. Violet’s name flashes on the screen.

“Hold that thought,” I tell him, grateful for the interruption as I answer the call. “Hey! How’s⁠—”

“Whitley?” Violet’s voice is thick with tears, cutting me off mid-sentence.

I straighten immediately, setting my mug down with a clatter. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“The florist just called.” A hiccuping sob breaks through the line. “They had a fire in their greenhouse last night. All the flowers for the wedding are gone. They can’t fulfill our order.”

“Oh, Violet…”

“The ceremony is in a few days,” she continues, her voice cracking. “Where am I supposed to find another florist who can pull together an entire wedding’s worth of arrangements?”

I press the phone tighter to my ear, already shifting into problem-solving mode even as my stomach drops. “Okay. Okay, deep breath. We’re gonna figure this out.”