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Downstairs, I find Janey jamming out to music on her phone and dancing around as she sings. I pale, not because her voice is awful because it’s not, but because she’s singing some Cardi B WAP . . . at full volume.
“Janey!” I bark. “Turn that off! We have to be professional.”
She gives me a ‘seriously?’ look, which is warranted considering I kind of bailed on her today, which isn’t the epitome of professionalism either. But after a long moment, she reaches over and taps on her phone. Everything goes silent as she glares.
“Can I help you?” she snaps. “I told you to stay upstairs. Figured you would be full of fun by now. And by fun, I mean Lorenzo’s dick,” she explains, as if her filthy meaning hadn’t been clear.
“I needed to check our status. Where are we at?”
I look around the room and am surprised to see a fair number of flowers. Not wilted ones on their last legs, either. Nope, there are lush blooms in several shades of pink and red, from basics like carnations and roses to more exotic tropical species like pink ginger and hibiscus. “It looks amazing in here!” I gasp, honestly surprised.
Janey beams proudly. “You might’ve put the fear of social media in the manager, but I put the fear of actual death in him. The cooler has been repaired. It’s temporary, more bubble gum and spit than actual parts, but it’ll do for now. We got these supplies delivered late this afternoon, and I’ve been sorting through them to see what we have to work with. Another shipment from Venezuela is coming tomorrow.”
“Venezuela? What are we getting from there?” I cross my fingers that it’s something unique and beautiful like the sourced materials we lost.
“Oh, nothing major, you know,” Janey hedges, telling me that’s not true at all.
“What?” I beg.
“Some orchids and Andean lupine,” she says flatly.
“What?” I say again, but this time, it’s a squeal of delight as I grab Janey by the shoulders and give her a good, solid shake. “How are we getting those?” Andean lupine flowers are beautiful and aren’t often used in arrangements, so getting our hands on them is a miracle.
“I have my ways,” she replies slyly. “Go to it. I know you’re dying to get your hands dirty.” She waves me toward the buckets of blooms, and I rush over to get started.
“Hit me with our list for the next few days, and let’s get a plan based on what we have available and how long they’ll be fresh,” I tell Janey.
So we get to work. An hour passes by quickly, then another. I should be exhausted after an afternoon on the water, but the creativity flowing through me keeps me moving, grouping flowers together into potential arrangements.
“How was your date?” she asks after a bit.
I consider how to answer that. “Weird?”
“Emily that bad? Need me to Karate Kid her ass?” Janey lifts one knee, balancing on the other foot with her arms spread wide like wings. “E-yah!” she shouts, doing some awkward kicking motion that looks more like a pissed off donkey doing a Riverdance than a crane kick.
I laugh, so she does it again. “And yah . . . take that, Bridal Bitch.” Her moves get progressively less karate and more catfight until I’m crying from laughing so hard.
“Thanks. I needed that,” I tell her gratefully. “But it was Lorenzo who was weird.”
“Aw, hell no. I’ll go karate master on him too. She mimes a knee to the groin shot and a titty twister on an invisible Lorenzo, making me laugh some more.
“Nothing that bad. He just held up a mirror that I wasn’t ready to look into.”
Janey is about to ask a follow-up question about my mysterious answer when there’s a knock on the door.
She whispers, “You expecting someone?”
I shake my head. “You?”
We each grab a pair of shears and approach the door slowly. I’m sure the resort is safe, but we’re alone in a remote area so we can’t be too careless. I will not end up as one of those Dateline specials with people speculating on whether I ran away with an island lover, got my kidneys stolen, or drowned in a drunken stupor.
Slowly, shears held out defensively, I open the door.
“Hey!” Lorenzo smile melts and his hands come up protectively as he frowns. “Hey! What’s wrong?”
“Oh!” I say, lowering the makeshift weapon so I don’t accidently stab him and become the murder-y tourist instead of the trafficked victim. “Just being careful. What are you doing here?”
I see his flinch at the accusation. “We didn’t get a chance to eat dinner, and I thought Janey might be hungry as well. I made food.” He holds up two boxes from one of the resort restaurants.
The smell assails me then, bright and rich and spicy. “You made dinner?”
