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“Yeah, Dad, that’s what you do when you get a degree in books,” I respond blandly. “You work in publishing, preferably as an editor somewhere.”
“You think you’ll be able to find a job in the city?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Not to stress you out, but it’d be a real kick in the gonads if you can’t put that expensive degree to good use. Me and your mom could’a had a tropical love nest somewhere.”
Love nest? Jesus. Now I’m stressed and skeeved.
“I’ve been back home for two weeks, Pops,” I say as much to myself as I do to him. “These things take time.”
“Well…” He pauses and gives me a good hearty pat to my shoulder. “I guess I should just be thankful I get to see your smiling face here at the shop for a little while, huh?”
My chest eases a little, and I’m reminded of why my mom and I haven’t arranged to have him meet an early grave. “I guess so.”
“You certainly brighten the place up,” he adds with a secret smile that reminds me so much of Evan it’s not even funny.
Whereas I am nearly the spitting image of our mom—long brown hair and big brown eyes—my brother could be our father’s twin.
Which, surprisingly, isn’t a bad thing.
With hazel eyes, now salt-and-pepper hair, and a strong jaw, my dad has always been a handsome guy.
“Not to mention,” he adds a little too loudly. “You’re a real nice change of pace from cranky Betty.”
“I can hear you!” my mom chimes in, and my dad chuckles through a big ole, full-teeth smile.
“I know you can!”
“And like you should talk!” she adds. “You’ve been on a rampage since you found out that daisy shipment was running one day behind schedule!”
“Now, listen here, Betty.” Bruce turns away from me to shout in her direction. “It’s the end of May, and everyone and their mother wants fresh bouquets! Which means, unless someone wants trouble, no one should get in the way of a florist man and his godspamming Gerbera daisies!”
My mom cackles. “Yeah, so we’ve all heard!”
My always-bickering, but still somehow in love parents, ladies and gentlemen.
If I added a white horse and shoved my dad in knight’s armor, they might as well be a Disney flick.
“Sheesh.” Bruce just smirks at me. “What’s stuck in her craw today?”
I grin and jerk my chin toward him. “Pretty sure you should recognize a thorn when you see one, Mr. Florist Man.”
Thankfully, Bruce takes jabs almost as well as he hands them out, and he leaves me with a smirk as he heads to the back to do whatever it is he does back there.
“He’s a real pain in my ass today,” my mother says as she sidles up next to me at the cash register.
I laugh and roll my eyes. “He’s always a pain in your ass.”
“Yeah.” She snorts. “You’re right. Every day for thirty years, he does something that makes my kettle steam.”
I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing at my mom’s metaphor and shrug. “It’s safe to say there’s no hope for change, then.”
“No. I guess not.” Her smile turns soft. “If there’s one thing to be said about Bruce, it’s that he always keeps me on my toes.”
“Oh yeah. Lifelong toe-walking is great for you. Just ask a podiatrist,” I mutter, and my mom doesn’t hesitate to defend her husband.
“He means well, Maybe. You know he only wants the best for you.” Her wise brown eyes crinkle at the corners. “Just try to remember his intentions come from the heart. And when it comes to his little girl, that sometimes-grumpy heart of his is enormous.”
“But that’s the thing, Mom,” I retort. “I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m a grown-ass, twenty-four-year-old woman.”
Her responding smile is far too knowing and sage. “Oh, honey. Twenty-four is so young. You have so much life to live and learn. You’ll see.”
All I can do is sigh. Because what can I say to that?
I don’t know that my mom will ever think I’m grown up, and Bruce does mean well. He wants me to be happy. I know that.
It’s just hard to remember during a bout of criticism.
The bell above the front door chimes, and a man wearing khaki shorts and an “I Heart New York” T-shirt steps inside. He has a camera strapped around his neck and a petite, gray-haired wife by his side.
“Hello. How can I help you today?” my mother greets, and the man glances around the front of the shop.
His eyes scan across the floral displays and sample bouquets of lilies and daisies and roses. “This is Bruce Willis’s shop, right?”
My mom nods. “It is.”
“Holy shit,” he mutters to himself more than anyone else. “I can’t believe Bruce Willis owns a floral shop.”
Oh, here we go…
“Is he…uh…is he here?” he asks, and my mom tilts her head to the side.
