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I prop four bunches of dry flowers into a display rack and flip the price tag to face customers coming through the quaint glass-stained door. I make my way back behind the serving counter and let out a breath. What else can I busy myself with?
The door chimes and Mrs. Baxter breezes in. If my day could get any better, this must be it. I bite the inside of my cheek at the irony of being busy with the busy body herself. The woman people love to hate. Hate is a strong word. Love to dislike.
Mrs. Baxter flicks her frazzled hair over her shoulders, and her wide hips sway as she saunters to the front desk. Her synthetic perfume overtakes the natural scent of a whole shop of flowers. My nostrils itch, and I press the back of my hand to squash my nose.
She removes her sunglasses. “Lauren, what are you doing here?” Her brows climb as she looks me over.
“I’m filling in for Elsie.” I won’t mention she’s sick. The lady could spin a rumor that my friend is dying of pneumonia.
“Are you here to buy some flowers?” I ask. Of course, Einstein.
“Yes, for Mrs. Wilson.” She leans forward and whispers, “She fell down the stairs and twisted her ankle.”
Why is she whispering? We’re the only people in the shop.
“I have an eery feeling it’s domestic violence.” Her head bobbles like one of those toys on a car dash.
“What? No. Mr. Wilson wouldn’t do something like that.”
“I thought the same, Lauren.” Mrs. Baxter waves her index finger. “But that’s why I’m going to visit her myself. To make sure.”
“I don’t think she’ll like the insinuation.”
She flaps a hand. “I won’t blurt it out. I’ll hint that I know something and explain she can tell me anything. I won’t tell a soul.”
I nearly swallow my tongue to stop myself from screaming at the lady. Surely, she won’t be as rash to push her speculation onto poor Mrs. Wilson while she’s in pain. Salt in the wound or what?
“Well, there’s chocolates at the back of the store.” I point in that direction. “The get-well-soon cards and balloons are beside the center tables. I’ll be in the back room if you need me.”
“Thank you, dear.” She turns and saunters toward the chocolates. Bet she’ll get a box for herself too.
The door chime rings again, and I nearly have a cardiac arrest.
Mason.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
I squat behind the cashier counter like a secret ninja as my heart leaps into my throat.
What the heck is he doing in my town?
I peek around the corner, and his back is to me as he touches a dried-flower arrangement from the entrance display I stocked this morning.
Who’s he buying a bouquet for? Bile leeches onto my tongue. Is he dating someone else? In Georgetown? My domain. Okay. I don’t own the town and wouldn’t want to be the mayor. But I live here. He chose his snooty lifestyle in Denver. Why should I have to see him around here with other women? Gross.
I get on all fours and crawl to the back room. The cold tiles press hard against my kneecaps.
“Mason, young man,” Mrs. Baxter trills. “Are you here to see Lauren?”
Cringe.
I make it around the corner and let out a breath. My pulse is hammering in my neck.
“Lauren? She’s here?” His voice sounds hopeful.
“Helping out for a friend.” Her heels click on the floor. “You know—” she oozes. “Lauren hasn’t dated anyone since your broken engagement.”
Oh, that woman is impossible.
