Four Weddings and a Werewolf

covered with a thin sheen of sweat, the way his jaw clenched right before he was about to—

“Fine. Stay here and sneeze.” If he didn’t want to leave, Veronica wanted Logan itchy, sneezy, and uncomfortable. Nothing too serious, just enough to drive him nuts. Maybe then he’d know what it felt like.

“Good morning, darlin’!” Patsy said, coming around the counter. “What brings you to me first thing this morning?”

Patsy had thinning blond hair, pudgy cheeks, dirt lining her nail beds, and glasses that were permanently placed on the edge of her nose. She was the best florist in the area. Hands down. The shop was small without being cramped, flowery without being overwhelming. Well, Veronica corrected, it wasn’t overwhelming for her, but she wasn’t the one with allergies.

“Heather called, and said there was an issue with the Sanchez flowers?”

Patsy leaned back against the counter. “It’s a simple problem with a simple solution. The bride wants flowering branches and narcissus, but we can’t get them. Well, we can, but the ones that show up are marginal at best and three times the price. I wouldn’t feel comfortable making an arrangement of such poor quality.”

Logan sneezed and Veronica did a mental victory dance. Cha-cha-cha- sneeze.

“That’s not going to work anyway,” Veronica said, making a note on her iPad. “Mr. Sanchez is on a tight budget. We’ve already asked him to bend in a few other places, and he’s adamant that the budget stay in place. Guess that’s what happens when you drop twenty grand on one night. He wouldn’t pay the hefty increase, even if his bride insisted on those flowers. Bless you, Logan.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” He wiped his nose, and rubbed his eyes.

“I told Heather that the bride will have to pick another flower for her bouquet and filler for her centerpieces,” Patsy said simply. “We’ve got leafy, bushy branches like ornamental pear or camellia to take the place of the flowering branches, and a wide variety to choose from in the bouquet department. I haven’t heard back from Heather on which adjustments to make. Would you like to see a book?”

“I would, thanks.” Veronica’s face itched. She glanced at Logan. His nose had turned red from near-constant rubbing. The more he swiped his hand over his nose, the more hers itched. She scrunched her face, but didn’t touch it. “Let’s go with the leafy branches for the centerpieces. I think that’s the easiest call to make. I really don’t think she’s going to notice the difference.”

The only reason Veronica knew the difference was because she’d seen Patsy do amazing flower arrangements with both varieties in the past. They were different, but beautiful in their own ways. The bridal bouquets, however, were entirely personal, and a decision that the bride would have to make herself. She would take notes and pictures, and narrow the options for the bride, then report back to Patsy by the end of the day.

The florist disappeared into the stockroom and came back with a large three-ring binder full of flower choices separated by season. Veronica flipped to summer as Logan sneezed again. And again.

“There are tissues on my desk,” Patsy said, her eyebrows pinching in concern. “Feel free to grab some if you need it.”

“No. I’m good.” Logan sniffled. And stared out the window at the street. Was he looking for her stalker? Leah and Jake were overreacting, Veronica was sure of it. As soon as she left here, she was calling her sister and finding out what the hell was going on.

“Here.” Veronica pointed to a lovely bouquet tied off with a black satin ribbon. It was simple. Pink roses. White calla lilies. Deep-purple hydrangea. “This is pretty.”

“I thought you’d like that. Your taste is classically elegant without a lot of fuss.” Patsy leaned close, and out of the corner of her eye, Veronica caught Logan’s gaze shifting to her. “But the bride insisted no hydrangea.”

“How about daisies?”

“She nixed those, too.”

“Peonies?”

Patsy folded her arms and shook her head. “This bride is very pleasant to work with.”

“I’ll say.”

Logan cleared his throat. “Maybe she’s waiting for something to strike her, some sort of meaning, like the bouquets that the Victorians used to make.”

“Excuse me?” Veronica tried not to sound shocked that he’d spoken up.

“Nineteenth-century Victorians used to choose herbs and flowers that spelled out the first letters of the groom’s name.” He leaned over the book, pointing to the flowers as he spoke. “In this case, for Paolo, use peonies, Asiatic lilies, orchids, lisianthus, and a different variation of orchids. P-A-O-L-O.”

The idea was out of left field, and very, undeniably brilliant. Veronica stared so long, her eyes dried. She blinked quickly. “What—where…?”

Where’d that come from? was what she’d wanted to say. Instead, she gibbered.

“I think the bride might actually go for that,” Patsy said, snapping Veronica out of her haze. “Where did you learn that?”

Logan stood and disappeared behind the counter. He came back with a fistful of tissues that he smashed against his ruddy nose. “I’ve been around a while and learned a lot.”

“I’ll say.” Patsy gave her the scoop-him-up-before-he-disappears eye. “I’m going to give the bride a call right now, tell her your suggestion, and see if we can get moving.”

“I should probably—” Veronica began, but Patsy put a hand on the table, stopping her.

“No, sweetheart. You stay here with this handsome gentleman.” She winked at him. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

When she strode to the back, Veronica returned her iPad to her bag and fished out her phone. Anything not to have to look directly at Logan. “I think that’s actually going to work,” she said. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

“I was just hoping it’d get us out of here faster.”

“There is no ‘us,’ Logan.” But there was more to his floral suggestion than simply wanting them to hurry the decision-making along. Call it curiosity; Veronica couldn’t help but ask… “If you ever get married, is that what you’d want your bride to do for you?”

“My bride?” He shook his head and laughed. “Remember my one- night rules? I won’t ever have a bride.”

“But if you did?”

He leaned close, covering the space over the tiny table. The air in the shop rocketed from cool to sizzling. “If I did get married, I’d want a woman who understood that the actual wedding doesn’t matter. It’s one day and one night. That’s all.” He flicked a picture in the binder. “I’d want a woman who had a sense of humor and wouldn’t be afraid to make a bouquet out of pussy willow. Lots and lots of pussy willow.”

Veronica laughed as Logan emphasized the first part of the word. But by the second time it escaped his lips, heat tingled up her neck.

“I don’t think that’d make a very pretty bouquet,” she said, crossing her legs.

“I think pussy willow would be a great addition to any kind of arrangement.” He licked his lips slowly, as though he was savoring certain flavors that might’ve lingered there. “What’s wrong, Veronica? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Of course not.” She shuddered, but tried to play off that she was cold. She brushed her hands over her arms and stared outside. “I wonder what’s taking Patsy so long?”

“Maybe she’s trying to convince the bride to add pussy willow to her arrangement.”

Veronica shot to her feet. “Would you quit saying that word! No bride would put that in her bouquet—it’s dirty.”

“Oh, come on, it’s funny. People take this stuff too seriously. I mean, if you were my bride, for example—not that I’d ever let that happen—and you made your bouquet out of pussy willow, I’d make my boutonniere out of”— he turned a page in the binder and laughed—“cockscomb.” Looking thoroughly pleased with himself, Logan leaned back, pushed his hips forward and kicked his foot up on his opposite leg. Why couldn’t she take her eyes off his crotch? Did he have to display himself like that? With his hips pushed out and a very obvious bulge in his pants? “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the word pussy willow,” he said. “In fact, I