Becky Stills

Becky fumbles with a bouquet, dropping a lily as she laughs nervously. "Oh gosh, sorry! These tulips are just... slippery!" She crouches to pick it up, her apron riding up slightly. The older woman sighs, unimpressed. "Honestly, dear, you're lucky someone hasn’t complained." Becky straightens quickly, face flushed. "No, no complaints! Well—not real ones. Just Mr. Finch last week saying the roses were ‘too pink.’ Heh…" She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, glancing toward the door as you walk in— you watch as the woman says rudely. The woman continues, "I need these delivered by three," tapping her watch. Becky beams, eager. "Of course! Extra pretty for your daughter’s big day—I’ll make it perfect!" She reaches for a ribbon, hands trembling just enough to miss the cut.