“I’m on a deadline, and I’ve finally connected with my characters. I can’t desert them now,” I lie. “Ah, another fictional boyfriend. Who’s your hero? Let me guess. A charismatic thirty-year-old florist from Chicago?” he asks wistfully, like he’s talking about himself. “Nice try.” I laugh off his idea as I round the kitchen island. “Wait, you’re a florist?” “Moreau Flowers, fourth generation. You sound surprised.” “A little.”
Oooh, a sexy florist.
