~
We did miss our appointment with the bakery, but we got to the florist right on time.
This visit was different from the dress shop. The people knew who Dalton was and fawned over him, but they weren’t friends.
I was annoyed by how uptight everyone at the florist seemed—as if it was their duty to educate me about why certain flowers I liked the look of weren’t appropriate. They wanted to do orchids, no doubt because they would be more expensive.
“Absolutely not,” I said after they pushed the third orchid package on me. “My mother would be appalled. She’s a member of the Beaverdale Orchid and Dandelion Wine Society.” I suppressed a smirk, amused at myself for haughtily name-dropping a club nobody outside of Beaverdale would have heard of.
“Then of course she would love orchids,” the man said.
“Do you like puppies?” I asked.
He nodded.
I explained, “If you went to a wedding and they had the chopped-off heads of puppies, would you be happy?”
The man gasped.
Dalton, who’d been smirking, stood abruptly and grabbed my arm to help me up.
“Thank you so much for everything,” Dalton said to the agitated florists. “My fiancée has been under too much pressure from me to get everything arranged on such short notice. I must apologize. It’s my fault that I can’t wait to marry this gorgeous woman, and enjoy her marvelous sense of humor forever.” He grinned at me, his eyes flashing additional messages. “Very funny joke about the puppies,” he said.
“Yes, it was a joke,” I said slowly.
“We’ll come back after my fiancée has had a rest,” he said.
I frowned at him, sending a wordless message into his brain: Not here! I hate these people.
His eyes widened: Of course not here. Let’s get out without making a scene, because I am a famous actor, and I do not need more bad publicity thanks to you.
Me: I want to throw something at someone.
Him: Calm the fuck down.
(At least that’s what I thought he meant by the eye flashes and tense expression.)
Squeezing my hand firmly, he led me out of the florist amidst a flurry of apologizing and ass-kissing by the staff.
I stepped out of the door. People jumped at us. I shrieked while what seemed like a hit squad of people surrounded us, cameras flashing.
CHAPTER 21
Someone at the florist shop must have tipped off the media, and here were this city’s paparazzi. They weren’t as insane as the ones in LA, but they did shout their demands:
“Show us the ring!”
“Peaches, are you going to wear white?”
“Nice watch, but where’s the ring!”
“Kiss for us! Come on, just one kiss! You look so beautiful together.”
“Kiss for your fans who love you both!”
Dalton grabbed my shoulder and steered me around to face him.
“Shall we make it official?” he asked.
“Kissing for the paparazzi makes our engagement official?”
“Do I really need to answer that?” He dialed up his grin to full-vampire-smirk.
I tilted up my chin in response. The flash frequency increased, and he leaned down to kiss me in full view of everyone. This kiss was different from his usual ones. Our lips barely touched. It was a very cinematic kiss, and not the good face-mashing kind, which probably wouldn’t photograph as well.
After the kiss, we posed for a couple more shots with his arm around me.
The photographers kept asking about the engagement ring. I held up my hand and apologized. “Getting sized,” I said. “I have fat fingers.”
They seemed to accept this response, and, after a few more pictures, they ambled away, dispersing in all directions.
Dalton kept his arm around me and steered me down the street. “You probably shouldn’t have said fat fingers.”
“Are you worried they’ll make fun of my fat fingers? They’ve said much worse.”
“Some of them were taking video. I should get you an appointment with a media advisor. It’s fine to say self-deprecating things, but never insult yourself.”
“Fat is an adjective, not an insult.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. But the world doesn’t see it that way.”
“Who gives a fuck what the world thinks?” We crossed the street with the light.
Still with his arm around me, but not looking me in the eyes, Dalton said, “People in the public eye care what the world thinks. They have to.”
“Oh, right.” I chewed on my lip and thought everything through as we walked up a hill, back to where the scooter was parked. “I may not give a fuck what the world thinks about my fat fingers, but I should make an effort to present myself in a positive way, right? Like, even if I feel down, I should keep smiling so other chubby girls can dream of marrying a handsome, famous actor.”