Page 20 of Down Bad

And scared me a little.

It’s been a long time since a guy has stood that close to me.

In my space.

In my oxygen.

I need to get him out of my fucking head.

I’m not sure what does it exactly—the sight of the orchid, the unusual peace and quiet tonight, Diego’s annoying words—but I’m back at the laptop, and I scrap the new quote I’ve been working on tediously all night. Instead, I send Mr. Bellamy three options. First: my original premium design at the price already quoted, but I throw in extra greenery and waive my setup fee. Second option: 15% cheaper, but with smaller arrangements and fewer premium stems. Third: budget-conscious new design using seasonal flowers that still accommodate his desired color scheme at a lower cost.

Fair options. Not unreasonable.

And I’m not doing this because Diego was right. I’m doing this because the math is right.

I’m running a business.

My business.

I click send, feeling satisfied. Then close the laptop. Lean back in the chair. And let myself smile for once, despite the sleepiness in my eyes and the crick in my neck. I don’t even bother glancing out the window again before putting myself to bed at last.

Diego doesn’t rev his engine in the morning.

I sleep in until 8.

A serious luxury on a Thursday.

I enjoy a few customers today between my in-store chores of trimming stems, usual watering and upkeep, as well as arranging a pickup order for Robby who should be by around five. It’s still the morning when I wrap a cute arrangement in paper, tie with twine, then smile as I hand it to Mr. Mitch Arnold, who hopes the flowers will make Ms. Bethie Davis smile again—it’s for some reason he didn’t disclose and I wouldn’t pry out of him. After a nurse from the clinic picks out sympathy flowers for her aunt, I spend half an hour helping Mrs. Harding choose between roses or lilies for an apology she may or may not have earned after a “tiny recent disagreement” with her mother-in-law Nancy. “I promise we’re getting better,” she tells me, like I know all her business and am keeping tabs, “and argue much less often now, but thank goodness Cole and Noah came by for dinner a minute later, because I was not about to hold back.” No further questions, your Honor.

After waving goodbye to Mrs. Baker, who just stopped in for a chat on her way to Patsy’s for lunch, I slip behind the counter and wake up the computer to check my email.

No reply from Mr. Bellamy yet, which I choose to interpret as professional respect.

And not the calm before a khaki-colored storm.

I lock up the shop around 2 in the afternoon to take a break—which is obviously a joke, as I always run errands on my so-called breaks—and head toward the bank with three deposit slips and a caffeine headache.

The fastest route takes me past Whitaker Auto.

I stop in my tracks when I spot a set of muscular legs popping out from underneath a car in the main garage.

Spread apart way too far to be decent.

Inviting my eyes right in between them.

The material of his blue mechanic pants tighten on his thighs, bunching up as he works, doing all kinds of things.

His boots go one way. Then the other.

Legs never closing.

He grunts, deeply and audibly, even from all the way out here, from the street, where I can hear it like we’re sharing a bedroom.

And then suddenly we are.

His powerful legs wrapped around me.

Grunting.