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8
HATTIE
“Just got off the phone with another guest from that wedding we went to,” I told Thatcher, grinning at him as he entered the shop.
My parents were out making deliveries, and Debbie was off today, so it was just the two of us.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes. Same story as the other three who have called. It seems your mother spoke very highly of Bluffton Blooms, and she wanted to discuss her daughter’s upcoming wedding.”
Thatcher’s face split into a wide grin. “There we go. I always hoped something good would come of her incessant chattiness.”
It had been six weeks since that night, and we now had four full-price-paying customers who wanted us as their flower vendor for upcoming weddings.
It seemed silly to think about now, but when we didn’t magically have a line out the door during the first two weeks post-wedding, I’d almost lost hope that his mom’s efforts would pay off. But then, one by one, the orders had come.
I remembered her trip to the store with the book club, and a thought occurred to me. “Hey, I wonder if any of the new walk-in customers we’ve had recently were thanks to her. We don’t really ask people how they’d heard of us.”
“Maybe you should,” he suggested. “Then maybe you’d know which of your efforts were paying off.”
I pointed a finger at him. “Now who’s acting like they went to business school?”
“Far from it, trust me.”
“Did you always want to be a firefighter?” I asked, taking my notes from the phone call and slipping them into my folder for later.
“No. I didn’t even know I would be one until after I’d gone through boot camp and combat training.”
“Really? You didn’t sign up for this specific job?”
“When I joined, I picked an air wing job field that would either branch out to Crash Fire Rescue or Ordnance, which would be handling the weapons and explosive materials on the aircraft. They’re kind of related, but two different worlds within the Marine Corps. I expected to get Ordnance and spend more time in cammies than flame-resistant coveralls, but hey, luck of the draw, I guess.”
I drew my lips in as I thought about it, worry creasing my brow. “It’s dangerous, though, right? I know being a Marine, in general, is. But also putting out fires on top of that?”
“Uh, yeah, fires can be dangerous. And don’t forget the hazardous materials I deal with,” he added, teasing me.
“Those, too. Is it scary?”
He ran a hand over the back of his neck and shrugged. “I’ve been in a couple of hairy situations. On deployment, but also here in the States. We had a jet go down while we were training once.”
“Down? Like …down, down?”
“Yeah, as in, out of the sky, down to the ground. The pilot bailed, and he was fine, but my handlineman got blasted in the face with debris when we were putting out the fire. I wasn’t scared while putting out the fire, but I’d been scared for him, for sure. He wound up being okay, though. His gear protected him.”
“Wow,” I said, swallowing past the lump in my throat, “that sounds terrifying. Here I was only concerned that you were leaving in two years, and now I’m afraid you’ll get hurt in the meantime. As your friend, of course.”
Thatcher clamped his jaw tight, the lines of concentration deepening along his brows and under his eyes. “I’ll be all right.”
“Good.”
“We can’t keep doing this.”
His voice had been so low I wondered if I’d even heard him right. “What?”
Thatcher stepped toward me, placing his hands on either side of the counter with my body centered between them. For a moment, he stared at me intently, his hazel eyes smoldering.
“We can’t keep doing this,” he said again, his voice uncompromising, yet oddly gentle.
