Page 30 of Almost Enough

“What do we need exactly?” he asks, all business.

I stare at him, momentarily derailed. “What?”

He looks up at me with sympathetic, big brown eyes. “Flowers, Red. What flowers do we need.”

“Oh, um, ceremony arch flowers, ten centerpieces, bouquet for me, Violet’s bridal bouquet, corsage for Violet’s mom, boutonnieres for all the important men⁠—”

“Colors?”

“Ivory, blush, and deep burgundy, with greenery.”

He nods once, committing it to memory, then dials the next number on my list. I watch, stunned, as he transforms before my eyes.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice warm in a way I’ve never heard before. “I’m calling about a wedding this weekend at Pinecrest Resort.”

He listens, then continues. “Yes, I understand you’re booked. I’m wondering if you could recommend someone who might be able to help us. The original florist had an accident.”

I watch, mesmerized, as he listens intently, jotting down notes on my pad. Internally, I’m losing my mind a little.

Who is this man?

Beau, in all his broody glory, suddenly morphs into some kind of sexy logistical commander. Capable. Utterly composed. His voice? Deep and smooth like expensive whiskey—none of the usual gravel, just that rare tone he uses when he’s speaking in full, coherent sentences. And with purpose. It’s disarming.

It’s also wildly inappropriate how much hotter he gets when he starts problem solving. And bossing people around politely? Immediate ovary combustion.

“Thank you. I appreciate your time,” he says before hanging up and immediately dialing another number.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

He covers the microphone briefly. “Getting information. Sometimes people respond better to a man’s voice. Especially when they think it’s urgent.”

I should be offended, but he’s not wrong. And right now, I’m too desperate to care.

By the time he’s wrapping up the third call, jotting down “Maggie – local flower farm – eleven a.m.,” my brain is short-circuiting from a lethal combination of stress, caffeine, and how that plain white T-shirt is stretched over muscles that have no right being this well-defined during a floral crisis.

He hangs up and turns to me like he didn’t just make me want to climb him like a jungle gym over peonies.

I stare at him, mouth slightly open. “How did you do that? I begged and pleaded and got nowhere. How do I get some of the man magic?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t do anything special.”

Liar.

Because I heard the way he lowered his voice, slowed his words, added just the right amount of gravity to make anyone on the other end of the line believe this wasn’t just important—it was life or death. The man could sell sand in a desert if he wanted to. He has no idea the effect it has.

It’s unfair. Uncalled for. Highly inconvenient for my hormones.

“Well…” I clear my throat, willing my pulse to chill out. “Thank you. Really. You didn’t have to do all that.”

His eyes drift over my face, unreadable. “Yeah. I did.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from blurting something embarrassing. Like how sexy I find it when he speaks in full sentences. Or how if he keeps being this steady and reliable, I’m going to fall face-first in love with him before this wedding is over. Even if he is a little mean.

Instead, I pick up the notepad, pretending my heart isn’t galloping. “Alright, flower farm it is. Let’s go see what Maggie’s got.”

ten

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