Asshole. “You’re real funny.” I roll my eyes but he’s kind of speaking the truth.
I can’t get away from Marina Knight. She’s invaded my thoughts the last few days. The last few nights. I regret pissing her off. I regret not getting to spend more time with her.
I also regret that she sounds somewhat like a man-eater according to Archer, though she hadn’t given me that vibe when I was with her. Alluring, yes. Seductive, most definitely.
Sighing, I run my hand through my hair, glancing out the window at the gorgeous view of the vibrant green and gold vineyards in the distance. I need to make a gesture. Get on Marina’s good side.
But how?
Marina
THE BOUQUET ARRIVED out of nowhere, a gorgeous burst of color, a variety of wildflowers in a giant glass vase with a raffia bow tied around the middle. The delivery guy carried it into the store with both hands curled around the vase, his head hidden behind the blooms.
“What the heck is that?” My aunt Gina stops right next to me behind the counter, her gaze wide, jaw hanging open. Her forehead has a streak of flour across it and the apron she wears is smeared with chocolate.
“I don’t know,” I answer as the flowers are set rather unceremoniously on our counter, directly in front of me. “They’re beautiful though.”
“And they’re for a Marina Knight,” the delivery guy announces, his tone bored as he chews his gum, contemplating me from around the flower arrangement. “Is that you?”
Curiosity fills me. “It is. Who are these from?”
He shrugs, not giving a crap. “I dunno. Check the card. See ya.”
I watch him go, the glass door swinging closed behind him, the tinkling bell above the door announcing his departure. Aunt Gina nudges me in the ribs, her elbow extra pointy for some reason, and I grumble out an ouch.
“Check the envelope! I want to know who your new admirer is,” she encourages eagerly.
“Hah, I have no admirers.” And I like it that way. Men complicate everything. I need to focus on saving the family business, not worry if a guy thinks I’m pretty enough to ask out on a date.
Leaning forward, I breathe deep, inhaling the deliciously sweet floral scent. The flowers are so beautiful they almost don’t look real. The arrangement appears haphazard, a casual gathering of gorgeous blooms, but as I look closer, I see that it’s artfully arranged.
“They’re lovely,” Gina breathes, sniffing loudly. “And they smell divine. Even better than the chocolate cake baking in the oven.”
She’s right. I can’t even smell the usual bakery scents anymore. All I can inhale is the fragrance of the flowers. Plucking through the arrangement, I run my finger first over a silky white petal, then a velvety purple one. I notice the pick nestled amongst the blooms holding a small, cream-colored envelope.
I tear it open and pull out the thick, square card, frowning at the sight of the unfamiliar, very bold script.
Marina—
I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive my rudeness the other night. Perhaps we can start over?
Best,
Gage
Blowing out a harsh breath, I roll my eyes at no one. I’m freaking irritated he didn’t sign his last name, believing he was that memorable.
And he had been.
A giddy, fizzy sensation washes over me, and I fight it down as best I can, but it’s no use. I like that he did this. That he wanted to apologize by sending me flowers.
It meant he was thinking about me.
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head, focusing instead on why he had to make that apology in the first place. Talk about a grand gesture. The flowers had to have cost him an absolute fortune. Glancing at the back of the torn envelope, I see the name of the floral shop printed in tiny script in the upper left corner.
Oh yeah. I know they cost a fortune. Botanical is the premiere florist shop in the valley—and right down the street from the bakery.
“Who are they from?” Gina asks.
I glance up at her, sad I’m about to disappoint her. My mother’s family has already written me off as a dried-up old maid, I know it. I’m freaking twenty-three but every Molina woman, including my mother and my aunt, were married by the age of twenty-one.
The way they act, they may as well set me up on the shelf and forget all about me.
“A man I met a few nights ago,” I start, glaring at her when she begins squealing excitedly. She shuts up quick. “It was nothing. We were at that new winery’s open house, remember the one I told you about? We started talking, and then he made me angry, so I stormed off. The flowers are his way of apologizing.”
“Some apology,” Gina says dryly, her gaze still lingering on the bouquet. “Why did you get so mad at him?”