“Mariel,” he said, addressing his longtime friend and employee at his garden shop, Ben’s Plant Emporium, “it has been a privilege to work alongside you and watch you thrive like the plants you care for. You’ve always given your time, love, and support to everyone around you, and you deserve to receive that love back a thousandfold.”
Ben was sweating. He nudged his gold-framed glasses up his nose with his free hand, then peered down at the note card on the table that held his talking points.
“Now that you have Oz by your side,” he continued, “you shine more brightly than ever, and I’m happy to see it.”
It was a clumsy speech, but Mariel didn’t seem to mind. The brunette witch was beaming, looking radiant in a white dress with lacy cap sleeves and a full skirt embroidered with vines and flowers. Next to her and wearing a black suit that matched his usual stark aesthetic was Oz—or as he had once been termed, Ozroth the Ruthless. The soul bargainer had been on Ben’s shit list for a long time before he’d realized the demon was actually considerate, thoughtful, and utterly besotted with Mariel under that gruff exterior. The newlyweds’ meet-cute had involved an inadvertent summoning and bargain in which Oz had tried to take Mariel’s soul, but that issue had been resolved, and the couple had been devoted to each other for nearly two years now.
The normally surly Oz was now grinning widely, with lines of joy stamped beside his eyes. Those marks deepened with every year on Earth now that Oz was mortal, and Ben felt a surge of longing laced with envy. Not because Oz was marrying Mariel in particular—marrying Mariel, Ben’s tipsy brain repeated, delighting in the alliteration—but because they were happy and in love.
This was why Ben didn’t like weddings. He should be unconditionally delighted for his friends rather than sad about his own single status. He shoved down the shameful envy and glanced at the card again.
“Oz,” he continued, addressing the black-haired, black-horned demon, “as you know, I wasn’t sure about you at first. It isn’t every day a demon comes portaling to Earth demanding your friend’s soul.” The crowd chuckled at that, and Ben felt a surge of relief. Thank Lycaon, progenitor of werewolves, he wasn’t messing this up too badly. “But I saw how hard you fought to protect Mariel, and since then your love has grown and deepened. You prove that love with actions, not just words, which is the measure of a good man. It’s an honor to know both of you and to be invited to give this speech.”
He wasn’t sure why they’d asked him to give a speech, but the reception had been speech-heavy so far, with family and friends of the bride and groom spouting impassioned, brilliant toasts that were all far better than Ben’s.
“My skills are in gardening, not public speaking,” he said, wrapping things up, “so I’m going to sit down before I embarrass myself.” Another few chuckles at that. “In lieu of the brilliant oratory you deserve, I present you with a plant.” He nodded toward the side of the room where another of his employees, a naiad named Rani, stood holding an orchid. She strode forward, grinning confidently in the way of well-adjusted people who didn’t want to shrivel up and disappear in front of a crowd, and presented the plant to Mariel.
Mariel gasped and clapped her hands to her mouth. “Ben, are you serious? You found a January Sunrise?”
The January Sunrise orchid was rare, found only near the top of a magic-laced mountain in France where the ley lines allowed flowers to bloom through the snow. Its petals were snowy white blending into soft pink, the edges lined with orange, and the golden stamen glittered with magic.
“A rare flower for a rare friend,” Ben said. He’d had to trade away a substantial selection of aphrodisiac plants from his shop’s inventory to get it, but he didn’t regret the transaction.
“It’s perfect,” Mariel said, beaming at him. The orchid leaned forward in its pot, brushing its petals against her cheek. Mariel wrinkled her freckled nose. “Hi, baby,” she whispered to the flower. “You’re going to love my greenhouse.”
Plants always behaved that way around Mariel. She was brimming with so much nature magic the world came alive around her and plants acted downright besotted. Ben was a bit jealous, since werewolves didn’t have any magic other than the truly unfortunate monthly transformation into a feral creature, but he couldn’t deny it made her a heck of an employee at the garden shop.
Oz looked at Ben with obvious gratitude. “Thank you,” the demon mouthed.
Ben nodded in acknowledgment. Then, glad to have the speech over with, he plopped back into his seat.
His sister, Gigi, nudged him with her fork. A fork that unfortunately had residual sauce on it, leaving a greasy smudge on his navy coat sleeve. “Good speech, bro.”
He blew out a heavy breath. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
“You’re a great public speaker. I don’t know why you hate it so much.” Gigi shrugged and tucked back into her pasta.
At thirty-three, his sister was five years younger than Ben, though he claimed she acted ten years younger and she claimed he acted eighty years older. They were both taller and more broad-shouldered than average and had the same thick brown hair and brown eyes, but personality wise, they couldn’t have been more different. Gigi was an extrovert who loved parties and public speaking, while Ben preferred time alone with his plants, books, and knitting.
Tonight Gigi was wearing a gold dress with her favorite pink Converse, and glittering piercings marched up her ears. “Thank Lycaon you’re not wearing a sweater vest,” she’d said when she’d spotted him wearing the navy suit earlier that day. “Someday you’ll let me take you shopping.”
That was an “absolutely not,” and what was so wrong with sweater vests, Ben would never understand. They were sophisticated yet cozy, wrapping around his torso like a hug.
Or maybe like one of those ThunderShirts worn by quivering dogs, his judgmental inner voice said.
Ben drained his champagne and signaled the circulating waiter for another.