When I Was Theirs

72. Emmy

72

Emmy

A ngelo doesn’t say anything.

“Angelo?” I twist my hands into my dress. “I’m so sorry. You’ve been so good to me—,”

“No.”

I blink. “Um. I’m sorry?”

Can your boss refuse to accept your resignation? “It’s three months. You can’t keep my job open for that long. It’s not fair on you.”

Three months.

He sighs. We’re in his office. “Have a croissant, Emilia.”

Bewildered, I pick one out of the bag when he shakes at me. “I know this probably seems like I’m being irresponsible. But I’ve thought about it. And this is something I need to do.”

Jared and I, sprawled on the floor of the living room with our heads together, going through options. Talking, and crying, and making plans. So many plans. Flights, and hotels, and day trips.

Plans that don’t involve him.

Not for a little while.

And the thought of that scares me more than I can say.

“I am retiring, Emmy.”

The croissant pauses halfway to my mouth.

Angelo leans forward. His gray, bushy brows draw together as he looks at me. “I am tired. I wish to travel too, before I get too old. There are a lot of baked goods out there to try.”

But—

“What about the studio?” I blurt.

Jared’s studio. “He’s worked so hard, Angelo.”

“He can keep the studio.” My boss sits back in his chair, crossing his fingers over his stomach. “And you can keep the florist. When you come back.”

Silent, I stare at him. He clicks his fingers. “Are you still alive?”

My mouth snaps shut. “Yes.”

Maybe. I’m feeling a bit dizzy. “I can’t just… take on a florist, Angelo.”

“Yes, you can. You’re ready. I should know. I trained you. You were terrible when you arrived. Now, you have talent.”

Easily the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received. But… he did train me.

“I will use this time to wrap up Angelo’s.” His fingers tap on the desk. “And then it can become something new, with you. I own the building. We will agree a sum for rent, and if you want to buy it in the future, I will sell it to you. And the studio. All materials included. I will not need them.”

He’s really thought about this.

My own florist.

My dress is covered in crumbs, and I brush them off hastily. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

“Say nothing.” He picks up a pastry. “Eat your croissant. I will draw up the paperwork. And then you can go and buy me a sandwich. And a muffin. The bag of little ones with the lemon in the middle.”

Well, then.

I bite into my croissant.