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Mrs. Right - A Romance Anthology
XOXO - A limited Edition Romance Anthology
THE RIGHT TIME
MEL WALKER
1
“It’s about time,” I mock scream at a bleary-eyed Jasmine as she enters the glass doorway of the greenhouse in the rear of my workplace.
“It’s too early, Adrienne.” She stretches as she yawns a response, lifting her thin arms high. Her tight, pink tank top lifts with it, the sunlight glinting off her navel piercing.
“It’s never too early to be great,” I shoot back, already through two-thirds of my early morning coffee, my feet shuffling beneath me as I rush to her and pull her into an embrace. My words may sound corny, but they are one hundred percent authentic, one hundred percent me.
She plops her head onto my shoulder, and I hear her fake snore. “Why did I agree to this again?” Jasmine is not a morning person—no person our age is, but there’s a reason we’re here, only the early summer sun rising before we did.
I push out from the hug, but not before rubbing my hand through her ponytail, knowing how much she hates it. I know she’s sleepwalking when she doesn’t react. She needs to get her blood boiling, and I know the perfect remedy.
“Because you’re looking for a boyfriend, and I’m the absolute best at matchmaking.” I pull her by the hand toward the ring light, where I snap my phone to the connector. Behind us is a bed of early summer perennials. The strong early rays bounce off the glass wall behind us. Dozens of multicolor flowers provide a backdrop not found anywhere else in Mesa, Arizona. Stephanie’s Flower Shop is the largest storefront of its kind. It’s greenhouse is massive and, at this hour, deserted. “Stand here.” I point toward a piece of worn red tape. “That’s your mark.”
She scratches her head as if I’m speaking a foreign language. Jasmine is white, a year younger than me at twenty-two, with dark hair and matching penetrating eyes she hides behind a pair of thick prescription glasses. Jasmine and I connected my senior year in college, and she somehow followed me after graduation back to my hometown of Mesa. I helped her find a marketing gig at one of the big-box retailers. Having settled into a new city and position, she’s asked me to help her with her next project—finding a man.
Jasmine, like most women in their early twenties, is a walking paradox. She can swing from overconfident to insecure in the time it takes to read a text from a guy. She can master adulting and present an innovative proposal to her leadership team at 4:00 p.m. and then curl up in the passenger seat of my car and snort-laugh at SpongeBob Squarepants at sundown. I do my best as her friend to remind her that life is a marathon. We won’t solve all our problems tomorrow or the next day, but we will get there. In the meantime, enjoy today.
She adjusts her ponytail and bounces on the tips of her toes, twisting her wrists and shaking her hands at her hip, manicured fingers stretching as if she’s about to step onto a volleyball court. “What am I doing again?”
I giggle. She’s not a morning person. “TikTok,” I say, stepping behind the tripod and pointing to my phone. Every Sunday morning, my boss has an employee check in on the greenhouse. We have a complex overnight irrigation system in the greenhouse, along with cameras and a monitoring app on our phone, but my boss, Stephanie, insists we manually come in and check. One technical blip ages ago keeps her on edge. The thought of the harsh Mesa Sunday destroying the more sensitive flowers is a constant fear of hers.
Every Sunday, the staff rotates the assignment. Today’s my turn. After checking the systems, I take advantage of the location and the emptiness. I shoot TikTok videos and cue them for the week.
“Shouldn’t I rehearse or something?” Jasmine adjusts her white denim shorts, not noticing that I’ve already started recording.
I spin for no other reason than because it’s the first thing I think of. “Life’s best moments aren’t rehearsed. Don’t think—act.”
Her giggle floats in the air as she lifts a hand to the sky and performs a pirouette. “You’re such a weirdo.”
My fingers tap, and a Lizzo anthem blares out. “I know.” I roll with the compliment. I pride myself on being different. All my life, I’ve acted this way. I’ve marched, danced, and lived life to the beat of my unique drum. And the best part is most people get it.
Jasmine shifts her dance to the tune, twirling her hips and pumping her chest to the driving beat. Without thinking, my feet lead me in front of the phone, and I join her. We are two dancing fools enjoying the sunshine, relishing all that life has to offer.
“I still can’t believe I’m doing this,” she says as we bump hips, toss our hair back, and spin in a fit of laughter.
“Not another summer,” I remind her of her pledge to me last fall. She had gone through the third summer in a row with a boy breaking up with her the last month of the spring college semester. The breakups ruined her mood and summer. Then in the fall, the pattern repeated.
This time, she spent her senior year avoiding relationships, not wanting to risk another guy leaving her heart on the tarmac while they hopped on a plane back to their hometown and probably a local girl on speed dial.
This summer is going to be different for a lot of reasons. One, she’s in a new city, and two, she’s recruited me as her wingwoman. Today is the start of Operation It’s About Freaking Time.
Besides working at the flower shop, I’m a social media influencer. My brand is unique, not easily fitting into any predefined box, just like me. Somehow, I have over seven hundred thousand followers. I’ve been able to monetize my platform with over two dozen clients, a list that is still surprising to me.
A simple post highlighting Jasmine’s charm, along with a few well-placed tags, should have her social media account blowing up and a pick of guys who should keep her busy and happy all summer.
The song ends, and Jasmine races to grab my phone. She pulls it off the tripod, biting down on her lower lip, and pulls the screen an inch from her nose.
“Glasses!” I yell at her. Jasmine is blind without her eyeglasses, yet she insists on taking them off every chance she gets. I understand why—her dark eyes are one of her best features. I’ve seen firsthand more than one guy stop dead in their tracks, unable to speak, hypnotized and helpless. Too bad Jasmine never gets to see their reaction up close without her glasses. Blurry, carnival-mirror images is how she once described it to me.
She adjusts the wire frames across the bridge of her nose, swipes across the screen, and strides toward me. “I look as goofy as you,” she says, holding up the screen.
