The laughter died in Linsy’s throat, leaving a silence so profound she could hear the frantic drum of her own pulse. Charlie followed her frozen gaze, and her own smile vanished, replaced by a deer-in-headlights panic.

Michael.

He stood like an obsidian monument amidst the tea shop’s cozy clutter, his tailored overcoat a slash of darkness against the warm wood and potted ferns. In one hand, he held the long, white florist’s box—a grotesque parody of a romantic gesture. His expression ...