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PROLOGUE
OWEN
“Good morning. Thank you for calling Cygnature Blooms, where bigger is always better. You’re speaking with Tee. We specialize in healing broken hearts worldwide. May I have your location?” she chirps through the phone like a damn Disney fairy ready to break out into song, and I roll my eyes over herTinker Bell–inspired scripted speech.
“Clark Falls, Montana,” I reply gruffly.
The tapping of her fingers hitting the keyboard reverberates in my ear before it stops abruptly; then she speaks, “Unfortunately, we don’t have a store in that location, sir.”
I already know this, which is precisely why I chose this company to begin with. With my mom being the only florist in town, I had no other option but to seek business elsewhere. Not only would she have blatantly refused to do this for me, but I most likely would’ve received a sharp clip around the ear for even suggesting it.
“However,” she continues. “We do have a store in Kalispell.”
“That’s fine.”
“Okay, great. Putting you through now,” she responds, and I hear a beep before the music plays through the line.
Great, I’ve been put into a holding tank. And to make matters worse, I’m stuck listening toAdelesing about broken hearts, tears, and shit.
Blowing out a breath of impatience, I pace the tiled floor of my kitchen as one minute bleeds into another. And just as I seriously consider hanging up and stealing what I need from Esme Carter’s greenhouse, the painful music suddenly cuts out.
“Good morning, Cygnature Blooms Kalispell. This is Rhonda speaking. How may I help you today?” She also sings with just as much gusto as her friendTinker Bellfrom the head office.
“I want flowers.”
“Why, of course, sir. We’re more than happy to help. What date do you need them by?”
“Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh, fabulous!” she croons excitedly, forcing my brows to pinch together.
Jesus Christ, are these Cygnature Blooms ladies high on Kool-Aid or something? Perhaps I should tell her what the flowers are actually for. It would, without a doubt, ruin herbirds are singing, Disney-inspired, happy-go-lucky day.
“And what sort of arrangement would you like, sir? We have a beautiful selection of red and pink roses that are very popular on Valentine’s Day—” she rambles on.
And on.
Until finally, I’m unable to listen to her anymore, so I cut her off.
“I want lavender,”
“Oh…very well then,” she replies, the cheerful ring to her tone faltering slightly at my abruptness, and now I feel like a complete jackass. But fuck me, I just want to order some flowers, not have someone sing me a damn song.
“Would you like to add some baby’s breath to the arrangement? The white and purple contrast would really make the bouquet pop.”
Releasing a heavy sigh, I rake my fingers through my hair. No, I don’t want to add anything else, and to be honest, I haven’t got a clue what the fuck baby’s breath even is. You would think that, being the son of a florist, I would know this shit. However, my mother’s incessant ramblings about flowers over the years have been nothing more than white noise in the background.
“Do they stink?” I ask out of curiosity while scratching my chin and taking a moment to seriously consider her suggestion. I mean, a baby kind of stinks sometimes, right? Maybe that’s where it got its name from, and if that’s the case, it may make a nice addition.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say they stink per se,” she says, trailing off, and my forehead creases as I wait for her to continue. “They have a unique scent that I think would complement the lavender’s sweet and beautiful fragrance quite nicely.”
I have to stifle a laugh. I know someone who would argue with her adamantly that lavender smells anything but sweet, and not wanting to add anything which may mask the lavender’s so-called stench, I opt to play it safe.
“I think I’ll just stick with the lavender. And when I say lavender, I’m talking one big-ass bouquet.”
“Absolutely. And would you like pick up or delivery?”
“Delivery, please.”
