Her Bidding

The thing about being twenty-six and never having sex is that you become very, very good at pretending you don’t care. Except, I care. God, do I care.

It’s not that I don’t want to have sex. I just can’t stand the idea of giving away a piece of myself to someone who wouldn’t even bother to value it. My body, my feelings, they’re not up for grabs by the first man who happens to smile at me.

I tug at the sleeves of my cardigan, brushing rose petals off the counter. The cooler hums in the corner, steady and low, while the faint scent of eucalyptus clings to the air. It’s a Friday night, and here I am, alone in a flower shop while other women are having fun tangled in someone’s sheets.

“Excuse me?”

The voice snaps me out of my thoughts. The bell above the door jingles as I spin around, rag still in my hand. A man stands in the doorway, broad-shouldered, rugged, one hand braced against the frame like he owns the place. His presence seems too large for my small shop, like the air itself shifted to make room for him.

I glance at the clock above the counter. Half an hour to eight. Still open. Barely.

“Yes, we’re open for another thirty minutes,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

He steps inside, boots scraping against the tile, his gaze sweeping over the shelves of lilies and roses. “Do you happen to have a dozen red roses?”

Excitement rushes through me. Another sale!

“I sure do,” I answer. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll have them ready.”

Turning toward the back counter, I busy myself with stems and ribbon. The air smells of fresh-cut greenery and the faint sweetness of carnations. The shop is quiet except for the hum of the cooler and the occasional shuffle of his boots as he waits. For a Friday night, it’s been slow. No lines of men rushing in last-minute to save face with their girlfriends. No young couples giggling over sunflowers. Just me, my thoughts, and the reminder that even roses cost more than most people’s dinners out.

Despite their price, flowers still manage to bring people together. They spark joy, forgiveness, beginnings. That’s why I opened this place in the first place, I wanted something steady, something beautiful, something that might bring a little happiness into someone else’s day.

I finish the arrangement, topping it off with a pink ribbon and a diamond pin tucked into every other bloom. The roses look like they’re dressed for a wedding.

“That’ll be thirty-nine ninety-nine,” I say, offering him the bouquet.

He lets out a gruff noise at the price but doesn’t hesitate to swipe his card. His hand is large, calloused, the brief brush of his fingers against mine sending a ripple up my arm. He takes the roses without another word, and I watch him leave, the bell above the door jingling in his wake.

I wonder what lucky woman will be blushing at that bouquet tonight. If it were me, I’d probably turn the color of the ribbon and stammer like a teenager.

Despite owning a flower shop, I’ve never actually received flowers from a man. Not once. My eyes flick to the empty glass vase I keep near the register, always promising myself I’ll fill it when someone finally sends me some. It’s been three years. Still empty. Maybe it’s not just bad luck. Maybe I’m simply not the kind of woman men buy flowers for.

I sweep up the stems and leaves scattered across the counter, the snip of scissors sharp in the silence. Once the last ribbon scrap is tossed, I glance at the clock again. Fifteen minutes to close.

I pull out my new book from beneath the counter — tonight’s distraction — and sink onto the stool by the register. Within seconds, I’m lost in Carolina’s world, a werewolf hesitant to mate with her alpha. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I devour these stories anyway.

Every page makes me ache with longing. Not just for the sex — though, God, yes, for that, but for the kind of love that sees every flaw and still says, you’re mine. Unrealistic? Sure. But it’s the only place where I can let myself believe someone might look at me that way.

The sudden ding on my phone startles me. I blink and realize it’s already a quarter past eight. Great. I got so wrapped up in fictional werewolves that I forgot to close up.

Sighing, I set the book aside, tuck the bills neatly away, and count the day’s earnings. Not nearly enough. It hasn’t been for weeks. Rent keeps climbing, and every year I scrape by, praying next month will be even better. Maybe I should expand — deliveries, on-site arrangements for events. But the thought of draining what’s left of my savings makes my stomach knot.

What’s a girl to do?

I shut the register with a click, turn off the shop lights, and pull down the blinds. My steps echo in the quiet as I head upstairs to the loft above the store, my little corner of the world.

It’s not much. The stairs creak, the paint peels near the windows, and my couch has seen better days. But the rent is cheap, the landlord likes me, and the best part, I don’t have to waste money on gas. The whole place smells faintly of roses.

I shrug off my coat and hang it by the door, the silence pressing in around me. My loft is my safe space, but tonight, it feels too big, too empty.

I curl up in bed with a sigh, tugging at my pajamas. Maybe it’s the book talking, but I can’t help but wish someone was here with me. Someone to cook dinner with, watch a movie, kiss me until I couldn’t think straight, and then do all the horrendously naughty things my books only hint at.

I come off serious, I know. People see my face and think “bitchy.” But if they could hear my thoughts, they’d know. They’d know my mind is practically begging for someone to come along and prove me wrong.

I’d like to believe I’m pretty easy going and level headed once people get to know me.

I turn off the lamp and lie back, staring at the shadows dancing across the ceiling.

“I don’t think I’ll be alone forever,” I whisper into the dark. “But wherever you are, can you hurry up and find me?”

The room gives me nothing back but silence. Eventually, I let my eyes drift closed and wait for morning to come.