When I Was Theirs

42. Emmy

42

Emmy

T oday is not a good day.

I fight the urge to cry as I stare at the ruined bouquet. Angelo glares at it too. “Again. Better, this time. You are better than this, Emmy.”

He’s right. My heart isn’t with my work today.

A prickling sensation spreads across my shoulders, and I turn to look out of the display window. Nothing on the street outside stands out.

The phone starts to ring, and Angelo huffs, striding over to answer it as I start pulling the bouquet apart to salvage what I can. Pinching his nose, he waves me over. “Yes, she’s here.”

He thrusts the phone into my chest. “No personal calls at work. You have a mobile.”

Both of us are out of sorts today. Although Angelo’s mood might have something to do with the marketing feature that dropped onto the mat a few days ago.

I did warn him. It’s not the best advertisement, with my dusty leggings, sports sweatshirt and ratty bun.

And they made it a double-page spread. Online, too.

“I told you to do it,” I mutter back, taking the phone. “Hello? This is Emmy.”

Only a buzzing sound meets my ear.

Frowning, I glance at Angelo. “The line is dead. Who was it?”

He lifts his hands. “How do I know? I cannot keep up with your boyfriends. In and out like a yo-yo.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense!”

He points at me. “No sass. My heart cannot take it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your heart. You ate three croissants this morning.”

He sniffs. “And an apple.”

The hint of amusement fritters away as I stare at the scattered flowers. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Angelo sighs. My brows bunch together as he steps up and physically nudges me away from the table. “What?”

“You cannot fix what is broken by staring at it,” he says pointedly. “Step away. Perspective, Emmy. Go and buy me a croissant and come back. Breathe the air. And coffee, too. Double shot. Cinnamon sprinkle stuff. And some cream on top.”

“ Another —,”

He shoves money into my hands. “Shoo.”

And then he shoves me out of the shop. I stare at the closed door.

And then he locks it.

“You have a pastry addiction,” I call out, knowing he can hear me. “They have helplines for people like you.”

The letterbox flaps. “ Croissant s. Make it two in case the birds steal one. Three if you want to eat one.”

“You’re going to end up having a heart attack.”

“Yes. From uppity workers who wear dirty leggings to work and take bad photos for my marketing.”

Low blow.

Sucking in a breath, I lean down and shout through the gap. “No croissants for you. You can have a nice salad bowl. No dressing.”

Spinning around, I nearly choke on my tongue.

Jared is standing a few feet away, his guitar case slung over his back. He looks confused, glancing between me and the letterbox. “Is this another Emilia quirk I should know about? You like to talk to letterboxes too?”

My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

Before he can answer, an audible groan comes from the letterbox. “Another one? You have too many men, Emmy. Pick one.”

Forget fire. The burning flames of hell couldn’t save me from the embarrassment. “Angelo!”

“It has a name.” Jared mutters. “And it talks.”

“No poking on company time.” A pause, as Jared and I stare at each other. “Three croissants. And a muffin.”

The letterbox slams shut.

“ Poking? ” Jared mouths. His lips twitch.

My head drops into my hands. “Just ignore that. My boss has an unhealthy obsession with baked goods and embarrassing me as much as possible.”

“Right.” He’s definitely laughing at me. “I was actually coming to see you. I wanted to ask your opinion.”

A little flip in my chest. “You did?”

He falls into step next to me as we walk toward the bakery, handing me a leaflet. “What do you think?”

It’s an advertising leaflet, for guitar lessons. Jared’s name and number is printed along the bottom.

“Is it okay?” he asks hesitantly. “I’m useless at this kind of stuff. I didn’t know whether to add a photo, or if it would put people off. Like adding a photo to a résumé.”

“I really like it. It looks professional.”

Although a photo wouldn’t put people off. I can imagine him having an influx of enquiries.

No photo.

I bite my lip at the unexpected surge of jealousy that rises up at the thought.

Jared tucks his hands in the pocket of his khaki jacket. “Yeah?”

He looks so uncertain.

And he came to me for advice.

My heart lifts.

“I think it’s great, Jared.” I grin at him. “The leaflet, and the lessons.”

He shrugs. “It’s been too long. I need to get back to a routine, and this is what I wanted to do.”

“Where will you teach?”

“I’ll find a studio. It’s easy enough to rent by the hour as and when I need it. Or I can travel to people.”

His hands move with his enthusiasm as he talks. I find myself smiling to myself, just watching him.

“Hey.” I suddenly remember. “This is going to sound weird, but… did you follow me to work this morning?”

Jared turns to me. “What?”

“Well,” I swallow. “You’ve done it before. I just wondered if you saw me out and about.”

Say yes.

Please say yes.

“No.” He frowns at me. “I’d like to think we’ve moved past that stage, Em. Why?”

I sigh. “It’s nothing. I had a weird vibe this morning, that's all. But I’ve been out of sorts all day.”

He starts to look worried. “I can hang around this afternoon. Walk you back.”

“No! Don’t do that.” He holds the door to the florist open – thankfully now unlocked – but he doesn’t look convinced. “Honestly, Jared. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me.”

Or some random person saw me as a possible target. Luckily, I got to Angelo’s without any issues, but it worried me.

I get that prickly feeling again, and turn away from the window. Angelo is leaning over the bouquet that went wrong, examining it. His eyes slide to Jared, then to me.

“One salad bowl,” I announce, holding it up. “With dressing. And a chocolate muffin. Don’t say I never meet you halfway.”

Angelo looks devastated. “No croissants?”

My eyes widen. “They ran out.”

Jared clears his throat, clearly remembering the four trays of steaming fresh ones laid out on the shelves. “Very popular.”

Angelo gives him a suspicious look. “Are you Tuesday or Wednesday? Which day of the week? I lose track of Emmy’s friends.”

Jesus . “Angelo.”

He sniffs. “Where is my green tea?”

“You asked for coffee.”

“Coffee is not healthy.”

“Angelo, you literally asked me for a double shot with cream and cinnamon sprinkles.”

“But you know what I want better than I do.” He takes the cup, his face morose. But it brightens as he examines the salad. “I like this salad. But too much dressing.”

I pray silently for strength.

“Is it really homicide,” I ask Jared sweetly, “if you’re driven to it?”

He very valiantly doesn’t comment. Angelo scans him up and down. “You want a job here?”

“Uh—,”

“Angelo, can I put this in the window?”

Jared’s head spins to me. I wave the leaflet at him, already climbing into the window and slotting it into the corner. “Have you got copies? We have a photocopier.”

“For business use,” Angelo adds.

“Exactly.” I nod.

“ My business use.”

“Which is what this is. We’re using your business. Which is very kind, thank you. Eat your beetroot. It’s good for you.”

Jared glances between us. “Uh. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

His cheeks are red.

“Come back sometime,” Angelo says suddenly. “I will teach you about flowers.”

I blink. So does Jared, his eyebrows raising. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

“Not today though. Today we are busy. So go away.”

Angelo spins, disappearing into the back office as Jared gapes. I hide my laughter behind my hand. “He doesn’t mean it.”

“I do.” Angelo shouts back to us. “Emmy is very distracted by nice-looking men. She will ruin another bouquet.”

I sigh. “I promise, that’s not what it sounds like.”

“Blond ones,” Angelo shouts. “Dark ones. Red ones.”

“I am not – wait. What do you mean, red ones?”

My heart starts to thump, hairs lifting on the back of my neck. Turning away from Jared, I chase Angelo down. He’s sitting behind his desk, about to bite into a croissant he clearly stashed here this morning. When I appear in the doorway, he tries to hide it behind his back, but the crumbs on his shirt give him away.

I don’t care about the croissant. “What do you mean, the red one? What red one?”

My voice rises.

“Em.” Jared is behind me. “What’s the matter?”

“Angelo.” I can’t breathe. “Who was here? Was there someone else here?”

He puts the croissant down, studying me.

“A man,” he says finally. Seriously. “Yesterday. I thought he was one of your men. He asked for you, but you were not working.”

Slowly, I shake my head. It feels like water is rushing into my ears. “Not… not one of mine. Did he say my full name?”

Angelo frowns. “He got it mixed up. I thought you met him on the flame app. What was it? Emmy…,”

I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

“Matthews.” He clicks his fingers. “Emmy Matthews.”

The blood drains from my face. My hands. My feet.

“Emilia.” Jared is in front of me now. His hands are on my shoulders.

I can’t hear you.

I can’t breathe.

I’m on the floor, and Jared is holding me. Angelo is there, both of them talking.

Help me . I try to say it. But my mouth doesn’t work. The rushing sound grows louder.

Can they hear it?

Metal in my mouth. Heat on my face, down my side.

And it hurts.

Lia. My Lia.

Help me.