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“Is who here?”
“Bruce Willis.” The man stutters over his words. “I’d…I’d love to get a picture with him.”
Most people might think it’s funny, entertaining, even, that my dad shares a name with the Bruce Willis, famous Hollywood action star. And truthfully, they’d be right. It gets quite confusing for the tourists, but it’s been a serious bright spot for me in the past two weeks.
Especially when they stop in, trying to get autographs and roses from the man who kicked ass in Die Hard, only to find my sixty-year-old father in a golf polo, khaki shorts, and loafers.
“He’s not here.” I busy myself filling the cash register with fresh paper. “He’s in LA. Shooting Die Hard 9.”
“Maybe.” My mom nudges me with her elbow, but I ignore her.
The man’s eyes light up with equal parts confusion and excitement. “There’s going to be a Die Hard 9?”
“Yep. Die…Hardest.”
Sure, it could be misconstrued as a little cruel, but I can’t help myself. This is a daily conversation in the shop. I have to spice things up every once in a while.
He scrunches his brow. “But I thought there were only five Die Hard movies…”
“I guess you’re four Die Hards short, then.” I shrug. “But can we interest you in a fresh bouquet of roses by Bruce Willis for your pretty wife?”
His wife smiles at me and then turns a “you better buy me some damn flowers” look toward her husband.
“Uh…” He pauses, but when his eyes meet the stare of doom, he quickly agrees, “Y-yes. Of course.”
“And Bruce doesn’t think I do anything around here,” I whisper toward my mom as the man proceeds to pick his main squeeze a fresh bouquet of pink roses from one of the displays.
She rolls her eyes and grins at the same time. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And a fantastic saleswoman.”
She pinches my side with a firm grip, and I laugh.
My mom handles the money exchange with Bruce Willis’s number one fan, and I walk toward one of the front displays and take inventory.
“We’re running low on the wild flower bouquets,” I call over my shoulder just as the bell chimes the couple’s exit. “Do you want me to cut some fresh ones, or do you want to?”
“I’ll do it,” she responds, and I hand her one of the empty water buckets before she heads to the back.
With my mom otherwise occupied in the back room and my dad likely taking a secret cigar break, I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speakers of the shop to play some music.
While Bruce is adamant he doesn’t smoke stogies anymore, we all know the truth. One whiff of him when he strides back into the shop after four o’clock says otherwise.
I scroll through my playlists and click on the fourth one from the top. Today feels like a Billie Eilish kind of day.
In the name of keeping busy and making this day go by as fast as possible, I drag a trash can over to the DIY-bouquet section and start picking through each bushel of flowers, throwing away the ones that are dead, have lost too many petals, or managed to get a little too smashed for my liking.
But I only get halfway into my task when the bell above the front door chimes another customer’s entrance.
Crouched down and riffling through the sunflower section, I call over my shoulder, “Just a minute!”
“Take your time,” a man’s voice responds, which I’ve always felt is like the Southern use of Bless your heart, so I quickly finish what I’m doing.
I toss three sad-looking sunflowers into the trash and rearrange the ones left in the bin so the proudest and prettiest are in the front and then push myself to standing. My apron is covered in petals and flower debris, so I dust off swiftly before spinning around.
But all of my hustling comes to a screeching stop, feet freezing securely to their exact location on the tile floor, when I see who the customer is.
Holy Godfather Cannolis.
Dark hair, cobalt-blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a sinfully firm body, he is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.
He’s also, it takes me almost zero time to realize, my brother’s best friend, my first real crush, and a guy I haven’t seen in nearly a decade.
Milo Ives.
He’s sporting a pressed, smart suit, and it’s apparent he’s forgone his old Converse and vintage band T-shirts and jeans preferences and adopted the wardrobe of a suave man.
I stare a little harder, and my breath catches in my throat. Dear God, if anything, he’s only gotten more attractive since I last saw him.
Pounding heart, nervous flutter inside my belly, and an embarrassingly ogling gaze, I’ve apparently left my current body behind and inhabited my thirteen-year-old self.
Briefly, I open and close my eyes just to verify what I’m seeing is real.
But it is real. He is real.
