Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“Y’know I hate when you do that,” he says, wiping toothpaste off his mouth.
“Say hi to the boys at the shop for me! Oh, and don’t be late to the thing—six o’clock, head there straight after work.” His answer is a growl. “Love you, too,” I sing as I waltz away.
Another growl. He loves me.
The cool winter breeze blows over my face (bear in mind, this is Texas we’re talking about, so “cool winter breeze” is a comically embellished account of this seventy-something-degree December air I’m currently relishing) as I enter the shop. Cash is already fast at work showing the new gal around. Her name’s Marissa. She was in Cash’s graduating class, a friend of his friend Savannah’s, and is super bubbly—sometimes a touch more so than necessary. Having been in the Theatre department at Spruce High, she’s got a natural charisma I’m sure (or rather: hoping) customers will appreciate.
“Mr. C!” Cash greets me, trips over himself coming in front of the counter, bumps into a shelf, grabs hold of a potted peperomia before it teeters right off the edge, sets it back in place like that didn’t just happen, and throws on a pleasant smile. “Just showing our new employee the ropes! How’s your morning?”
I’m blessed to have him, honestly.
“Oh! Before I forget: Joseph sent a reply about the Christmas party,” he goes on, “and loves all your ideas and was curious if you gave any more thought to the Bellmans’ New Year’s thingy?”
Needless to say, Joseph’s niece’s Very Fairy Fantasy party was a total hit, and every parent was raving about it from one end of Brookfield to the other. The whole rest of September leading into October were two of my busiest months ever. I acquired so many new clients, Cash and I could barely keep up with them. Marissa was a happy little accident that resulted after a number of other applicants (yes, I get those now, apparently) fell through. We just had to wait for her to return from her first semester at college, and now she’s officially my winter-and-summer-seasons helper. And it’s just in time, because between my clients both local as well as in Fairview, Brookfield, and even as far out as Little Water, I’ve got my thorn-shucking hands full.
I recently received an email from Grant Bellamy.
Directly. Not from his secretary this time.
With a surprisingly generous offer.
It was clear he had heard my name around town. Probably got sick of hearing it, for all I know. He informed me that Brighthouse, despite all their manpower and factory-power and money, simply do not have that special sort of “unmistakably personal finesse” that my work has.
In other words, his clients are now complaining.
“Why do our flowers suddenly suck?”
“Why have all the arrangements been lacking soul lately?”
“What happened to your secret superpower flower guy?”
But of course he doesn’t mention that part.
I only know it through Joseph, who has turned out to be quite the gossip himself, having opened up to me over the past several months we’ve worked together. With him, the line between client and friend is often blurred, but neither of us seem to mind. Diego and I even have an open-ended invite to dinner with him the next time we find ourselves out in Brookfield while he’s in town.
As for Mr. Bellamy: I politely but professionally turned down his offer on account of not being able to accommodate another big client, what with my schedule already so booked up for the busy upcoming holidays. He wrote back that he understood, thanked me for my consideration, and said if I had an opening in the near future, to please let him know as soon as possible. Even provided his personal number—just in case.
I took note of the desperation bleeding from his words.
And pretended not to take deep satisfaction in rejecting them.
For lunch, I hop over to Whitaker Auto to surprise Diego with some takeout from Biggie’s, saving him the trip. Of course I bring a little extra for Joel and Carl, who’ve come to expect my “boyfriend drop-ins”, they secretly call them. We eat at a covered picnic table out the back door of the shop—a lovely recent addition that was originally located under a shady tree in Spruce Park before Mayor Nadine decided to replace all the tables, and Joel’s father was the lucky recipient of this particular one, still in decent enough shape to be put to use.
When Carl tells us how he’s planning a surprise trip with the family to see his stepson Toby and Toby’s boyfriend Vann out in Dreamwood Isle, I lean into Diego and say, “Your aunt and uncle better still be planning to invite us out to their beach house soon or else I’m gonna have a word or two to say in the group chat about keeping promises.”