Page 16 of Down Bad

“Do you know anything about—?” Wyatt huffs, his grip on the counter tightening. “I said I would replace the flowers, Diego. I’m the one who planted them in the first place. As you can tell, it’s kind of what I do.”

“So?” I gesture at the plant in my hand. “You don’t think I’m capable of digging up a few holes in the dirt and dropping some plants in them?”

He closes his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable. It just … It takes a certain kind of …” He gives up and comes around the counter. “Just put that plant back before you traumatize it.”

“I’m not gonna traumatize—”

I think I was expecting him to just grab it.

But Wyatt’s touch is gentle when he takes it from my hands.

His soft fingers grazing my own.

Gliding over them as he carefully takes hold of the orchid.

Fingertips like live wires, sending prickles of electricity up the lengths of my arms, so far up I can feel it in my ears.

Transferring the pot from me like you would a baby. Precious and fragile and guarded with the lives of everyone who loves it.

He sets it back on the shelf and doesn’t let go for a moment, hands lingering in place. He takes in a breath, smiles, then lets go and faces me. “I appreciate it. Thank you. For wanting to do the right thing.” His smile tightens. “But I can handle it.”

His light green apron, like spearmint, with the blue-and-pink flower-and-moon logo on the chest. Giving him a look of authority he didn’t have when squaring off with me on the lawn.

Every light in this cramped shop seems to find his eyes.

Makes them look like sparkling swimming pools.

Annoying.

They’re too bright. Can’t decide if they’re trying to be green or blue. The kind of eyes a man could mistake for safe water.

Which is exactly how idiots drown.

I stand my ground. “I’m the one my tía put in charge of the house. Not you. I’m her family. Not you. Just tell me what flowers to get and I’ll get them and do this myself.”

His smile’s gone.

Seems like I’m starting to get good at wiping them away.

Another ding from the front door separates the two of us from each other like we were just caught doing something.

In walks a man in a golf polo with sunburned neck and shades, which he slides up to the top of his tightly-combed head of blond hair. He slips a hand into his pocket. His loafers clack on the floor with every step.

Wyatt changes at once.

Not much.

But enough that it catches me off-guard.

Something in the way his spine straightens up. How his smile snaps right back in place, brighter than any he’s ever given me.

He looks like a training video host. Perfect. Pleasant.

Alien.

“Mr. Bellamy,” Wyatt greets him. Even his voice is changed. “I wasn’t expecting you until Friday.”

The man stops, like Wyatt’s existence is a surprise. “I was in the area. Thought I’d save us both the trouble of a phone call and drop in. What is it? Don’t like seeing me?”