Blue Roses(3)
One time, I was on a blind date with a guy who pulled out his phone to bid for virtual spaceship weapons on EBay. He won the auction, but lost the chance at a second date.
That was over a year ago. I shouldn’t be so picky, because I haven’t had a date since.
If only someone half as hot as Luca would walk into my life…
With a sigh, I tuck the final bits of greenery into place. My pride as a florist is stronger than my desire to sabotage his relationship. The arrangement is stunning.
Luca comes back in at closing. He has flecks of paint all over him, most likely from his renovations at the garage. Looking at his thick fingers, speckled in paint, makes my whole body tingle.
“Those flowers are almost as pretty as you,” he says. “How’s your handwriting?”
My cheeks flush at the double compliment. I grab a pen and a notecard.
“You say the words and I’ll write ‘em.”
“Just put down the usual.”
I glance up. “You want me to write ‘Sorry I’m such a jerk’ on here?”
“If that’s the usual, then I guess it’ll do.”
“It’s your funeral,” I joke, writing the note.
Immediately, I rip up the card. My Florist Code kicked in. I can’t do harm.
“Why’d you rip that up?” he asks.
I gaze up into his breathtaking blue eyes.
“Luca, you asked me what I know about women. Let me give you a bit of advice. There’s not a woman out there who wants to get the usual.”
He takes the pen from my hand. His fingers graze my fingers in three separate and distinct spots. I feel the contact in every part of my body.
He picks up a fresh card from the stack on the counter. In simple block letters, he writes:
SORRY I’M A JERK. -LUCA
He looks up at me, a devilish grin on his lips.
“Good luck with that,” I say.
He leans across the counter. He’s going to kiss me.
His brown wavy hair brushes my cheek. He wraps his arms carefully around the large vase holding the arrangement, picks it up, then walks to the door.
My sister comes in as he leaves, holding the door open for him. She walks in, her eyes and mouth wide open. “Who was that big hunk of man-candy with half the store’s flowers?”
“Some lucky girl’s boyfriend.”
“The good ones are always taken. Or gay. Or players. Or live with their mother.”
“We live with our mother.”
“It’s not weird for girls.”
I start closing the cash register for the end of day reports.
She gives me her pitying look. “Tina, I saw the blue roses in the cooler. Are you okay? Prom’s coming up soon, and then…”
“I’m fine. I’m not going to your lame-ass support group.”
“If you really were fine, you might do more than work here and hide away with your sad movies. What was going on last night? I had my window open. I haven’t heard sounds like that since we gave Muffin his anti-dandruff bath.”
“Just a stupid movie with a golden retriever. I should know better. The dog on the poster always dies. People who make movies are assholes.”
“But it’s not just the movie. You always get bad this time of year.”
I slam the cash drawer shut.
“And I always get over it. So leave me alone.”
“Leave you alone? Careful, or you might get exactly what you ask for.”
I roll my eyes and walk away. “Close up the shop yourself,” I call over my shoulder.
Chapter 4
The lights are on, so that means my best friend Rory is waiting for me when I get home. She’s used the hidden key to let herself into the place I call my cottage. It’s actually a converted former garage in my mother’s back yard.
For the past few years, a lot of owners in this neighborhood have taken advantage of the city’s new zoning. Some people have built new mini-houses to rent out, and others have converted their garages.
Everybody complains about the construction and acts like city hall’s push for density is the End of Days. Eventually some of the loudest complainers start building mini-houses in their backyards, and then the new zoning is better than cheese and jam.
I walk in and find Rory using my Mac. I bought the computer because I was going to teach myself graphic design, or programming, or something. I mostly use it to check Facebook.
“Hey, sexy,” I say. “Are you here for that booty call?”
Rory jumps up and shakes out her whole body to communicate her disgust at my greeting.
Rory isn’t like anyone else I know. She gets grossed out by any mention of sex, in conversation, or in books or movies. A single word can send her screaming from the room.
She’s been my best friend since high school, and I love her as much as—or even more than—my sister. With her curly brown hair, she fits right in with my family. Our eyes are similar, but not exactly the same. She has golden-brown eyes, and my sister and I have green eyes.