Earl Grey & Murder, page 10
He gave me a long, exhausted look. Then finally, he exhaled—sharp and slow.
“Is this the part,” I asked, “where you apologize?”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky I haven’t filed charges.”
I beamed. “You’re lucky I make good tea.”
He didn’t say anything.
But the corner of his mouth twitched.
Just barely.
Which, coming from Levi, was basically a full-body confession.
Levi didn’t say much after that. Just took the card, slid it into an evidence envelope, and stood there for a second longer than necessary—like he wanted to say something else and couldn’t quite find the right words. He led me back to the room where Sasha was openly flirting with Lockhard.
Then, finally, with a sigh that seemed to drag straight from Levi's soul, he opened the door. “Let’s go,” he said, voice back to clipped and official. “You’re getting off with a warning.”
Sasha, who had been spinning in her chair, perked up. “So, you never answered: does this go on our record? Because I want something I can frame.”
“Out,” he said.
We followed him back through the corridor, still dim, still humming faintly with a fluorescent flicker. The front desk deputy glanced up as we passed—bored and unbothered—as if two women being released for mild trespassing was the most normal thing that happened in Wallshire all week.
Outside, the night had cooled. Crisp air, soft wind, the quiet lull of a town that had no idea two idiots had just kicked over its most well-groomed secrets.
Sasha turned to Levi and gave him a little mock salute. “Thanks for the ride, officer. I’ll remember this next time you need someone to teach you what a charcuterie board is.”
He didn’t rise to it. Just gave her a flat look and turned to me. “You’re lucky.”
I met his eyes. “You already said that.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You’re lucky it was me who found you tonight.”
Something tightened in my chest, quick and uncomfortable.
Before I could respond, he stepped back; the door shutting behind him with a soft click.
Sasha let out a low whistle. “I don’t want to make it weird, but that man is so emotionally constipated, it’s kind of poetic.”
I stared at the door for a moment longer, heart thudding in some slow, unsure rhythm.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “I know.”
Chapter
Fourteen
The bell over the door chimed softly, followed by footsteps I knew too well—quiet, precise, and somehow judgmental.
I didn’t even have to look up. “If you’re here to confiscate my scones, I draw the line at lemon lavender.”
Levi ignored the joke. Of course he did.
“You’re coming with me,” he said instead, already moving toward the counter like he owned the place. His coat was crisp, his hair too neat for someone who probably hadn’t slept, and he looked like the human equivalent of a sharpened pencil.
I arched a brow. “To where, exactly?”
He handed me a folded slip of paper. On it, the name:
Wildflower & Wren.
I looked back up. “The florist?”
“They won’t release any information about who placed the note.” He said it flatly, like it physically pained him to admit. “But someone in town says they gossip.”
“Gossip?”
“To clients,” he clarified. “If they think you’re buying for someone special, they get chatty.”
My smile was already forming. “So… we’re going undercover?”
“No,” he said immediately. “We’re gathering intel.”
“Disguised as people in love.”
He glared.
I leaned a little closer. “You came here to ask me to fake a relationship with you and buy flowers. You realize this is a Hallmark movie setup, right?”
“I came here,” he said through gritted teeth, “because you’ll ask the right questions and not get thrown out.”
I set my tea down and straightened. “Well, if I’m going to pull this off, I need to change.”
“You look fine.”
That stopped me.
I blinked. “What was that?”
Levi shifted like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “We don’t have time.”
But his ears—just barely—turned red.
I smiled like I’d just won something important.
And maybe I had.
I flipped the sign on the door to Closed and locked up behind us; the bell giving its usual soft goodbye chime. Levi stood next to his car like it had personally offended him, arms crossed, face unreadable.
I slid into the passenger seat, still tying my coat belt as he pulled away from the curb.
“So,” I said brightly, “I was thinking we’ve been married for three years.”
He blinked. “What.”
“For the florist,” I clarified. “Our cover story. You’re the emotionally distant architect who never remembers anniversaries, and I’m the charming, long-suffering spouse who brings you back to life with baked goods and passionate eye contact.”
A long beat of silence.
“We don’t need a story,” he said flatly.
“Wrong. We need lore.”
“Hart.”
“We have a shared Spotify account and a dog we co-parent but pretend belongs to your cousin, just to maintain plausible deniability.”
He stared at the road like it was the only thing keeping him from throwing himself out of the vehicle. “We’re buying flowers. That’s it.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And we need the florist to believe we’re in love.”
He muttered something under his breath—probably a prayer for patience.
I leaned my head against the window and grinned. “You know, if this were real, we’d be a nightmare of a couple.”
“Accurate.”
“I’d drag you to every Sunday market, and you’d alphabetize our spice rack.”
“I already alphabetize my spice rack.”
“Of course you do.”
He glanced sideways at me—brief, sharp. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Not when I’m nervous. Or excited. Or breathing.”
He exhaled through his nose, and I didn’t miss the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth.
I turned in my seat a little to face him. “So. Love life.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I mean—no. We’re not doing that.”
“Why not?”
He didn’t answer.
I leaned closer, all faux innocence. “Is there a tragic backstory? A forbidden romance? Were you secretly in love with your high school math teacher?”
He gave me a look so withering it nearly melted the dashboard.
“I’m just trying to develop our cover story,” I said, grinning. “It’s important to understand your character’s romantic trauma arc.”
“I have no arc.”
“You have so much arc.”
He kept his eyes on the road, jaw clenched.
But his ears? Pink.
I let the silence stretch for a moment before saying, “Fine. You can be mysterious. It’s part of your charm.”
He didn’t reply.
But I caught the smallest glance sideways—quick, like he didn’t mean to.
And just like that, we were two fake lovers in a real car, driving toward a florist who didn’t know what was coming.
“Okay,” I said suddenly, sitting up straighter, full of inspiration and zero restraint. “I’ve got it. You’re my history professor, and I’m your former student.”
Levi did not look over. “Absolutely not.”
“We’ve been in love all last semester,” I continued, undeterred, “but we couldn’t act on it because of ethics and power dynamics and your tenure track, obviously—”
“Hart—”
“—but now that I’ve graduated—with honors, thank you—you finally snapped, cornered me in your dimly lit faculty office, and kissed me so hard a pencil cup fell over.”
He blinked.
I nodded, satisfied. “Now we’re desperately trying to have a normal relationship in a small town filled with judgmental antique dealers.”
There was a long, weighted pause.
“Do you hear yourself?” he asked flatly.
“Yes. It’s incredible.”
“This isn’t a romance novel.”
“It could be,” I shot back. “You’re halfway to brooding academic.”
“I’m a detective.”
I shrugged. “Details.”
He finally looked at me, briefly, like he was questioning every decision he’d ever made. “I’m not pretending to be your professor.”
I smiled sweetly. “Fine. You can be the emotionally scarred florist who never loved again until I walked into your shop asking for apology tulips.”
He groaned under his breath. “Why tulips?”
“They’re vulnerable.”
We turned onto a quieter road, the sign for Wildflower & Wren just ahead—curved iron letters mounted on a charming whitewashed storefront covered in ivy and floral garlands. The windows were full of pastel arrangements, vintage watering cans, and at least three flower crowns.
The moment the shop came into view, Levi visibly tensed. “Please,” he muttered, “just follow my lead.”
I unbuckled my seatbelt with all the energy of someone walking into a theater. “I’m not saying anything until I see how you act in the role.”
He stared ahead. “What role?”
I grinned. “Lover.”
He closed his eyes for one very long second.
And then pulled into the parking spot without a word.
The moment I stepped into Wildflower & Wren, a wave of soft music and sunlight wrapped around me like a linen hug steeped in rosewater. The shop was a riot of color and calm—bouquets arranged with breathtaking precision, shelves lined with hand-lettered signs that read things like “Love grows best in wild places.” The air smelled of sage, freesia, and something faintly citrusy, like a lemon had fallen in love with a greenhouse.
I inhaled like I needed the scent to recover from the last twelve hours of my life. “This place is adorable,” I murmured.
Behind me, Levi entered with the energy of someone who’d been lured into a cult by mistake. He stopped just past the door and surveyed the room like he expected it to attack.
His nose wrinkled.
I glanced back at him. “Try not to look like you’re plotting the demise of a daisy.”
He crossed his arms, posture somehow both tense and deeply offended by his surroundings. “It’s just flowers.”
I turned, aghast. “Just flowers? Levi. This is an experience. Look at this arrangement—it’s practically a love confession in bouquet form.”
He gave it a skeptical glance. “Looks like a color wheel had a panic attack.”
I stepped closer and dropped my voice low. “Can I hold your hand?”
His eyes narrowed instantly. “What?”
I nodded toward a couple across the room—smiling, swaying slightly in front of a tulip display. The woman was clutching her partner’s arm like he’d just proposed via marigolds.
“Keep up the act,” I whispered. “We’re in character.”
He sighed. A deep, resigned sound that I was coming to recognize as I hate this, but I’ll do it, anyway.
He offered his arm.
I looped mine through, grinning at how stiff he was. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”
“This is deeply unnecessary,” he muttered.
“And yet,” I said, leaning into him slightly, “you still showed up.”
We passed a tall display of lilacs, and I leaned in with an exaggerated breath. “You smell incredible.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Thanks?”
I smiled. “I meant the lilacs.”
His jaw tightened—but his eyes flicked toward me, glinting. “Of course you did.”
The shop curved inward like a winding garden path, each display more indulgent than the last—trailing ivy, tiny jars of dried blooms, shelves of handwritten poetry quotes pinned with delicate gold clips. Everything about the place screamed romance, nostalgia, and please confess your love in iambic pentameter.
Levi looked like he was slowly being smothered by affection. “I don’t get it,” he grumbled. “Why does everything smell like a wedding?”
“Because you’ve never bought flowers without a reason.”
“People don’t need a reason?”
“Not when they’re in love,” I teased, brushing past a cluster of peonies so fluffy they looked airbrushed.
He looked vaguely horrified by the idea. “Love is expensive.”
I laughed. “And you wonder why I had to write the backstory.”
His eyes cut to mine—sharp, maybe amused, definitely alert. “I don’t need a backstory to know you’d leave petals all over my car,” he said.
“I’d spell your name in violets on your dashboard.”
“You’re not allowed in my car anymore.”
“Too late,” I said brightly. “I’m already in your life.”
And maybe—just for a second—he smiled.
It didn’t last.
But it was there.
We’d barely taken ten steps past the front display when a voice burst through the floral serenity like confetti out of a cannon.
“Welcome! Welcome!”
A girl with bright pink hair and an apron covered in daisies bounced toward us like she’d just mainlined three cups of sugared tea. Her nametag read Poppy in swirly gold lettering. Of course it did.
“I’m Poppy!” she beamed, eyes shining. “How can I help you lovely people today?”
Beside me, Levi went rigid. Like, full-body tension. Arms crossed. Mouth tight. Posture screaming get me out of this pastel fever dream.
“We’re, uh—” I gave him a sharp look. You dragged me into this, now participate, you glorious human clipboard.
He said nothing.
“We’re looking for flowers,” I jumped in, dialing my voice to bubbly. “Something romantic.”
Poppy’s entire face lit up like a Hallmark ornament. “Oh, how perfect! Flowers are such a powerful way to express love. Are we celebrating an anniversary? A proposal? A just-because-I-love-you moment?”
“Just trying to keep the spark alive,” I said sweetly, slipping my hand through Levi’s arm for extra authenticity. He stiffened further, if that was even possible.
“Well then,” she said, practically vibrating, “you two are in luck! You’ve arrived just in time for our Romance Pairing Process! It’s so fun!”
She ushered us toward a display table draped in lace, overflowing with roses, ranunculus, peonies, and something that looked like it cost more than my rent.
Poppy clutched her clipboard like it held the secrets of the universe. “First question—when did you first fall in love?”
I glanced at Levi.
He looked like he’d rather fight a bear with a spoon.
“Uh…” I stalled, trying to keep a straight face. “During a rainy study session. We were stuck inside the library for hours. There was one cinnamon bun left, and we shared it.”
Poppy gasped. “That’s so romantic.”
Levi mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “None of that happened,” but there was a suspicious twitch at the edge of his mouth.
Poppy scribbled furiously. “Okay! Next: what flower represents your relationship?”
I tapped my chin. “Hmm… orchid. Mysterious. Dramatic. Surprisingly durable.”
Poppy squealed. “Oh my gosh, yes! Orchids are so layered—just like you two!”
Levi pinched the bridge of his nose.
“And what would you say is your biggest relationship challenge?” she asked, her tone all gentle curiosity.
I leaned into him, voice conspiratorial. “We struggle with emotional vulnerability. He keeps everything locked away.”
“Like my heart,” he said through gritted teeth, voice dry as desert sand.
Poppy let out a heartfelt “awww” and nodded like she was in the presence of greatness. “You two are incredible. I can just feel the energy between you!”
I turned to Levi with a smug little smirk. “You should thank me for making your day more interesting.”
He shot me a look so sharp it could cut fabric. But he didn’t pull away.
Poppy tilted her head, eyes wide and sparkling. “Favorite shared memory. Don’t overthink it—just the first thing that comes to your heart.”
Levi looked like his soul was actively trying to climb out of his body.
I jumped in before he could say something brutally dull like we don’t do sentiment. “Oh, that’s easy,” I said, nudging him gently with my shoulder. “The night we got locked in the bookstore.”
Levi blinked at me. Once. Slowly. “What.”
“You remember,” I said sweetly. “That thunderstorm? We hid in the poetry section, shared one cinnamon bun between us, and I fell asleep on your shoulder while you silently judged the haiku display.”
Poppy made a tiny gasp, hand over her heart. “That is so cinematic.”
“I know,” I said, beaming. “It was very tragically tender.”
Levi just stared at me, somewhere between deep concern and existential fatigue. “…You’re terrifying.”
“And you’re welcome,” I whispered.
Poppy clapped her hands, clipboard still clutched to her chest. “You two are adorable. I love love. Okay—last question!”
Levi made a sound like he was aging rapidly.
Poppy grinned. “When did you know you were meant to be?”
I opened my mouth.
Levi beat me to it.
“When she told off that guy who stole her parking spot,” he said, completely deadpan. “She used five insults and quoted Jane Austen.”
I blinked at him, stunned into silence.
Poppy gasped again. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
I turned slowly to Levi. “You remembered that?”
He shrugged, suddenly very focused on a vase of ranunculus nearby. “You were loud.”
My chest tightened, unreasonably.
