Recovering from bullet wounds wasn't quite the same as when Floyd was twenty. Of course, he had no one to blame but his own recklessness for ending up with a wound in his abdomen.
He'd wanted to escalate things with Lucielle, to progress from daily texts to sending her a gift, a symbol that he hadn't given up on them, that he remained devoted to her. Even if she'd not responded to his messages.
Floyd knew his lady wanted some space but he was resolute that she should know he was always thinking of her.
He'd been considering different flower arrangements, in a rather self-important manner, three weeks ago when the diner he'd been breakfasting at was shot up. It was an assault from the Scots who had been trying to stake a claim on syndicate territory, and if Floyd had been a tad slower to
