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)
He looks at it. Then puts it back in the fridge next to the tea. “That was … thoughtful.”
His voice is weird. Like he’s still somewhere else. Lost in his mind. He shuts the fridge door, then just stares at it for a moment, not saying anything.
I don’t know how to react to it. Is he pissed I got him lunch or something? “Nothing happened.”
He looks at me. “What?”
“While you were gone. Just a few customers. Your kid handled them. Employee. Whoever.” I clear my throat. “Woman named … uh … Lily … or Lila …”
“Delilah.”
“Yeah, Delilah. Stopped by asking for you.”
He nods. “I’ll call her in the morning.”
“Something up with you?”
He looks at me, for a second about to shake his head no. But something stops him. Then he sighs and, after ducking under the counter, says, “I still have a few local deliveries to make, so I—”
“Is it that bag of dicks who was here before? Is that who you just made a delivery to?”
He sighs again. “Diego …”
“Did he say something? That shithead in a golf polo? Did he—”
“He was in a suit today.”
My fingers curl against the counter. “Didn’t know you’re still dealing with that guy. I thought you ditched him. Turned down his contract or … or whatever. You don’t need his stupid business or his condescending prick presence.”
“And I thought you understood that I value my customers.”
“Even the ones who don’t value you?”
He rises from behind the counter with a huge bushel of pink flowers that instantly make me cover my nose, they’re so fragrant. “I’m closing my shop to make my deliveries. Thank you for lunch. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. Is there anything else you want me to say sorry for, or can I go?”
I frown at him. “You mad at me?”
“Am I?” He departs the counter and starts gathering up other flowers and things, then heads into the back room.
I stand here, wondering what the hell’s going on. Maybe he’s still cooling off after dealing with that guy and he’s just taking it out on me. Big deal, I can handle that. But I’d rather him yell and bitch about it with me rather than give me the cold shoulder like I did something wrong.
When he comes back out with one of those empty boxes now filled with bouquets, flowers, packages, and other stuff, I take the box right out of his hands, startling him. “I’m off for the day. I’ll come with and help.”
He stands there with a look on his face like he’s about to do exactly what I wanted: explode all over me with his frustration.
Then he just says, “Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” and starts off toward the door, his keys jangling in his hand. I follow him out, confused.
Ten minutes later, the car’s loaded up.
Off we go without another word.
First delivery is an old lady in a cul-de-sac. She’s on her porch with a shaggy, mean-looking cat in her lap. “Oh, darling,” she says in greeting as Wyatt brings her a decorated basket full of flowers, the big pink ones that made me gag. “Right there’s fine, yes, right there. Oh, they’re even more pretty than I remembered!”
“Your porch light’s still out,” he notices, pointing.
“Oh, don’t mind that,” she says, eyes lost on the flowers. “My grandson’s coming over Sunday to fix it.”
“You said that the last two Sundays.”
She shrugs. “He’s a busy boy.”
The next thing I know, Wyatt’s on a ladder changing it himself while the woman watches from her chair, talking his ear off about how her brave, handsome son’s going to be a firefighter someday, and if there’s anything this world can use less of, it’s fires.
I just stare at Wyatt doing this chore and can’t help but think to myself: Are you kidding me? Everyone in Spruce, too? You just can’t say no to a single damned request, can you?
At the next delivery, a sleepy-eyed woman pays only half.
“I promise I’ll have the rest for you Sunday at church service, or early next week at the latest. My idiot husband twisted his ankle at work and we had to order one of them dang boot things. Do you know how expensive they are? It’s stupid. It’s just stupid.”
“Don’t worry, next week’s fine,” Wyatt warmly assures her.
Then we’re back in the car.
And I’m staring Wyatt down while he whistles to himself and drives like nothing’s going on in the world but happy dreams and butterflies. Just a few deliveries, and his whole tune’s changed.
This kindness disease of his runs deeper than I thought.
It isn’t just that dickhead Bellamy from the shop. It’s everyone in town. Everywhere.
“I’m sorry the delivery’s late,” says Wyatt to a slender woman with reddish-blonde hair, who’s apparently called Gran. She meets us near the front of the busy-ass restaurant she runs. “I know you wanted to have these for service tonight, but—”