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“Mmmhmm,” I say noncommittally. It doesn’t bother me that Courtney is married now and I’m not. We’ve never been competitive like that, and I’m truly happy for her. But Aunt Gertrude is slowing me down from something more important than her instigating ways. “Excuse me.”
I pop into the hallway just in time to see another door closing, the click sounding like a secret. I take a quick moment to straighten my dress, smooth any stragglers of thick hair back into my perfectly coiffed updo, and take a deep breath. Through those doors is a much-needed moment of release that will hopefully involve at least one orgasm. Hell, let’s make it three. I’m feeling hungry tonight. No sense in being stingy because this memory is going to be what gets me through the next few weeks of head-down hard work.
With a smile of expectation on my face, I turn the handle of the door and step through. “Lorenzo?” I ask softly, only to be greeted by the cool chill of night air.
I guess I got turned around leaving the ballroom and didn’t realize this door led outside. I wrap my arms around my body, conserving heat as I look for my knight in tattooed armor and consider how I can best have car sex in this dress without ruining it.
That’s when I hear a motorcycle revving. A bright headlight catches my attention, but the silhouette is unmistakable. Of course he rides a motorcycle. Any self-respecting bad boy wouldn’t be caught dead in some sensible sedan that gets great gas mileage.
I think Lorenzo is going to stop, sweep me off my feet, and ride off into the night with me, my dress blowing in the wind dramatically. But he rides right past me without so much as a glance.
My jaw drops as his red taillight disappears into the night. I basically just grinded with him on the dance floor, thought we were going for an all-nighter with zero strings—most guys’ dream proposition—only to be left high and dry, standing alone on the concrete steps.
Well, not dry since I’m most definitely wet beneath my panties.
Traitorous pussy, he left us! We don’t want him!
One last clutch of my core reminds me that I want something, but it’s definitely never going to be Lorenzo Toscani.Chapter 1AbiSeveral weeks later . . .“Girls just wanna have fu-un,” I sing along, not caring that I’m off-key as I tie a hand-dyed hot pink silk ribbon around a bundle of colorful garden roses while Cyndi Lauper belts her heart out over the SweetPea Boutique’s sound system. My fingers move faster as I near completion, left, right, and left, creating a fanciful bow. I’ve done this so many times my hands do the work mindlessly, leaving me to toss my head a bit as I loudly add, “they just wanna-a-a.”
Securing the carefully prepared loops temporarily with a pair of bobby pins before a dab of hot glue and a final knot, I spruce the flowers and then critically eye my creation. Seeing no flaw, a sense of jubilance fills me.
Perfect!
Creating beautiful flower arrangements never gets old for me, no matter how many times I do it. It’s been my passion for as long as I can remember, starting with wadded up handfuls of dandelion weeds when I was a little girl. But that changed quickly when I’d snagged some kitchen scissors and absolutely butchered the rose bushes out back.
“Look at what you’ve done! Destroyed!” our estate gardener yells at me as I cower, the bouquet falling to my side though I don’t let it go.
Mom runs in to check out the racket. Once her quick eyes figure out that no one is hurt, she asks, “Abigail, why did you cut the roses?”
Not hearing anger, I hold the bundle up again, showing it off. “They were so pretty, I wanted to bring them inside. I arranged them to show their best sides and hide the dark spots on the petals.” And with thorn-pricked and scratched hands, I hand the bouquet to her. “For you.”
“Oh, Abi!” Tears glisten in her eyes as she takes the flowers and holds them to her nose, inhaling deeply. “Thank you.”
The gardener clears his throat and Mom looks up at the reminder. “Right, of course. Abi, Edward works very hard to grow these roses and you just chopped them down. You did a beautiful job with the arrangement, and it’s very sweet of you, but you need to ask next time, okay?”
I nod, mouthing an apology to Edward.
Back in the shop, I smile. Mom’s tearful happiness had been the spark that ignited my love of arrangements, of making people feel appreciated with a beautiful design with a sole purpose of being pretty. I also think back to Edward, who’d lovingly and patiently showed me how to grow and prune the gardens after that first run-in. I apologized many times over for butchering his roses once I learned exactly what it took to grow them.
