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)
“Can I come?”
“No.”
“But I’m bored and have nothing to—”
“Hold down the fort ‘til I’m back.”
Cash blinks. “Seriously?”
The next twelve minutes are a storm of boxes, vases, flowers, and way too much ribbon. Cash asks a hundred questions, like he hasn’t been working at my shop one day a week for years, but by the time I’m out the door, he has crossed his arms and said, “I got you, don’t worry about a thing here,” with a dutiful nod. I’m still fumbling with my seatbelt when I drive off.
It isn’t a small drive out to Brookfield, either. I was so caught up this morning with Diego that I forgot I’d planned to make this delivery first thing before the weekend. But the morning got away from me, and now I’m going to be well over an hour late when I’d intended to be early.
And when I finally arrive at his office in uptown Brookfield, I am drenched in shame-sweat and certain my deodorant did not survive the travel. This is not an ideal look for me, entering a prim and wealthy place like Brookfield, where even the parking spaces outside of this sleek, blemish-free building look mopped daily.
I approach the building as I take in the ritzy street lined with name-brand this and specialty-store that, grunting under the weight of the box I’m carrying. I almost drop the whole order as I negotiate my way through a revolving door, then spill into a lobby the size of a castle, echoey and tall, with floors so polished I can see my own panicked face looking up at me next to my feet.
The front desk clerks (there are four) are all busy. I check an unhelpfully exhaustive directory posted on the wall in sleek black marble and fine gold lettering, then make a wild guess where Mr. Bellamy’s office is. Before boarding the elevator, I second-guess myself and check the directory again.
Then I spot a girl. Maybe six or seven. No one nearby as she stands next to the elevator, appearing to be wiping her eyes. She’s in a school uniform, one arm tucking books into her side.
And I notice she’s crying.
Silently.
A silent movie of a little schoolgirl crying.
I don’t know what possesses me, other than feeling lost and on the verge of tears myself, but I rush over to the elevators and crouch down by her. “You okay, sweetie? Something wrong?”
She stops sniffling at once and just looks at me, blinking her big reddened eyes.
“I get it,” I tell her, adopting some weird sort of dorky talking-to-children voice, like I’m a character on a corny TV kids show she probably doesn’t even watch. “Today just isn’t the day, is it?”
Her swollen eyes drop to the flowers sticking up out of the top of the box.
“Pretty, huh?” I smile. Then I reach in and slip out one flower from an arrangement, knowing it won’t be missed, and offer it to the girl. She takes it at once, eyes transfixed on the petals. “Keep it. Pretty flower for a pretty girl.” I rethink the sentiment. “Not that we should continue reinforcing this idea that prettiness is the ultimate aspiration. Sure, pretty flowers may sell more, but it’s the interesting ones I like best. They mean more. Trust me, you don’t know this yet, maybe you’ll discover it in college, but it’s a zillion times more valuable to be interesting than pretty.”
“Wish someone told me that back in college,” comes a voice.
I stand at once, nearly dropping my box. A handsome older gentleman in a smart suit with tightly-combed hair and a goatee, smiling warmly at me. The girl rushes right up to him and hugs his leg, then glances at me clutching her flower and books.
“Headed to a certain floor?” he then asks.
“I, uh … yes,” I finally manage to say, “but … no idea which.”
“Company name?”
It takes a second. “Bellamy Events.”
The man lifts his eyebrows. “What a coincidence. Me too.” He smiles again, then pats the girl on the head. “Why don’t you wait for me in the lobby? I shouldn’t be long. Then we’ll get ice cream and head home and totally not tell your mom.”
Her eyes light up like she was never crying. Then she lets go of his legs and starts off, only to stop partway, turn to look back at me, and say, “Thank you for the flower.”
“Stay cool,” I tell her with a wink. She doesn’t know what to do with that, so she just turns away, probably thinks I’m a weirdo, and hurries off.
Then I’m in an elevator with the gentleman, who helpfully pushes the button for floor 7 for me. “Joseph,” he says.
I’m so flustered I don’t realize he’s telling me his name. “Oh. I’m Wyatt. Thank you for directing me to Mr. Bellamy’s floor.”
“You must be Grant’s secret weapon florist he’s mentioned a few times.” He eyes the flowers in my box. “Your work speaks for itself. Elegant. Healthy. Not a wilted petal in sight.” He looks ahead and smirks. “You could make a killing out here in Brookfield.”