Page 92 of Passing Ships

I snatch it from his grasp. “It says right here. Tulip and dahlia bouquet,” I point out.

“Look, miss, like I was telling this lady, I don’t make the bouquets. I just pick up the flowers and deliver them.”

I glance down at the name tag on his jacket.

“Look, Mel, I know this isn’t your fault and I’m sorry you’re having to deal with it, but this is important. You’ll just have to go back and have them fix it,” I demand.

He sighs. “There isn’t any time. My guys are finishing up the arch now, and by the time that’s done and we drive back out to the distributor in Wilmington, the ceremony will be over.”

Fuck.

“What do we do? I can’t take this to her,” Naomie cries.

Geezus, can one thing go right? I look around the hallway trying to come up with a plausible solution. I could call Allen and send him in search of tulips, but what is the likelihood any florist in a fifty-mile radius will be open on a Sunday and stocked with white tulips?

“What flowers are on the arch?” I ask Mel.

“Huh?”

“The arch. Outside. What flowers are you putting on it?” I ask.

He looks down at the paperwork.

“We have some golden pampas grass, blush- and wine-colored roses, white ranunculus, and some eucalyptus,” he says.

“White ranunculus—what’s that?” I ask.

“It’s a pretty flower that looks like a tight white rose, only a little fatter,” Naomie answers.

“Okay. I’ll go pluck those off the arch and replace them with the roses from the bouquet. You keep the dahlias, and I’ll be right back,” I tell her as I tug the roses out of the ribbon that is holding the bouquet together.

I sprint out the door, down the hallway, and knock on the groom’s dressing room.

The door opens, and Parker is standing there.

“Wow, look at you,” he drawls.

“Yeah, you clean up well yourself there, handsome,” I say.

“Amiya? Is something wrong?”

I look around Parker’s large frame to where Sebastian stands in his tux, Sebby in front of him knotting his tie.

“Flower emergency. I need the best man’s assistance,” I say.

Lennon steps from behind him and walks to the door.

“Come on. Let’s go find a ladder,” I command.

He slides his hands into the pockets of his navy-blue pants.

Damn, he looks good.

He’s wearing his dress uniform. And it’s tailored to fit his body perfectly. Who knew a military uniform could be so hot?

“Why don’t you get Allen to carry a ladder for you?” he asks.

“Who?”