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“Exactly, but the ribbon is hard to—” she gapes at me as I untie the ribbon without ruining its integrity. “How in the hell did you figure that out?”
“I helped with one of my sister’s friends when they got married. I was stuck doing the bitch work.”
“It’s not bitch work.”
“You know what I mean. It’s tedious work for a guy, and you know how my sisters love to torture me.”
I quickly swap out the sachets as she forks in her dessert in record time.
“You eat like you’re in the military,” I chuckle. Her cheeks heat, and I guffaw. “You’re embarrassed? I’ve seen you eat seven tacos in five minutes.”
“Way to make me feel like a pig, Houseman.”
“I love the way you eat, it’s adorable.”
“Well, I promised Max we’d cut back,” she says around a mouthful, “two months ago.”
“You’re perfect,” I declare, carefully fastening another ribbon around the sachets that will no doubt be discarded into the trash this time tomorrow. “It’s such a waste. All this work and no one will really remember it.”
When she doesn’t answer, I look up to see her staring at me.
She clears her throat. “I disagree. I remember the details, and I think that’s what makes these things special.”
“If you say so,” I say, waving a sachet in her direction.
“I like busy work.” She stands and begins to clear thorns and leaves from a few roses in record time using simple kitchen shears.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“Job number eight. It was my favorite. I wasn’t fired from that one, either. They closed down, went bankrupt. I don’t know why I didn’t try to find a job as a florist anywhere else, I loved it. A hell of a lot more than repo.”
“So, go back to it.”
“I might,” she says thoughtfully. “I really do love it. Look,” she measures the flower length against the vase. “See, you have to measure the stem against the container, so it hangs slightly over the lip and then cut them longer moving inward. That’s what helps the presentation. Too much off and you don’t have enough stem to work with. It’s the cut that makes all the difference. Most people don’t know that.”
“Fascinatin’.”
“Smart ass.”
“You love it.”
“I do,” she says softly. “I really do.”
Our eyes meet, and I see that same blush creep up her neck.
“Some people think flowers are a waste of money, but I think they are a real gift. They have these short life spans where they brighten up everything around them.”
“What’s your favorite?”
She hesitates. “Ah, can’t decide. Don’t you smile at me!”
I raise my palms in surrender. “It’s just not surprising.”
“I know. What can I say? It’s my one true weakness.”
“Speaking of indecision, the next time you feel like texting me to ask me to Target, or Walmart, or anywhere money for product is exchanged, the answer is no. Forever.”
She waves a rose in my direction. “I saw the tears in your eyes last time we were in electronics. But I suspect it was because they were playing Finding Nemo.” She sniffs a flower to try and hide her smile.
