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I flip open the wedding arrangement album and price list and push it across the counter. I’m helping a couple order flowers for their wedding. It’s only the third wedding order I’ve taken since I took over the shop, so despite my low spirits, I’m thankful. The somewhat bored groom-to-be looks familiar. I’m pretty sure he’s one of the mafia guys who gets their hair cut next door. So it seems greasing that wheel is working.
Thank-fucking-god.
“I heard you’re an award-winning florist,” the bride-to-be says, looking around.
I flush, wondering if the place looks like an award-winning shop. Also, wondering where the hell she heard such a thing. But screw that, my arrangements are good—damn good. Better than Mary Alice’s. And I have a decent shot at winning an award in that competition in a couple months. I square my shoulders.
“We like to keep things fresh and original here. I put a lot of thought into my arrangements to make them fit the individual—or the couple.”
I kick myself for not updating the arrangement book with designs of my own—the photos are still Mary Alice’s. But I go off-book and start offering what I can see this couple using. “What color are your bridesmaids wearing?”
“Black cocktail dresses of their own choosing,” she says.
“Evening wedding?”
“Yes.”
“So you could do almost anything with the flowers. Do you have favorites?”
Her eyes sweep around the place again. “Roses, I guess,” she says.
“Roses are classic, of course. White or red would be the most formal, or you could do any other color that’s a favorite.”
The bride looks uncertain.
“Or you could do something totally unique. Mix something exotic in with roses. Like shades of pink and blush old fashioned roses with peonies. Or star-gazer lilies.”
She brightens. “Yes, something unique sounds great. I’d love the peonies.”
I talk her through the order, suggesting possibilities for table arrangements, altar, decorations, bridesmaids, groomsmen and, of course, her bouquet. At the end, we come up with a package close to $2500, which the guy doesn’t seem to blink at.
“So how did you hear about us?” I ask, hoping I sound casual. Forcing myself to make an attempt at being personable, even though I don’t feel like it.
“Armando Dezutti,” the bride says.
When I start, she goes still, her eyes slowly traveling from my face down to my chest. No, to the t-shirt. “Wait, are you… dating Armando?” she asks incredulously.
Shock flashes through me, mirrored in both her eyes and—strangely—those of her fiancé.
I blink rapidly. Dammit. I made it all day without a tear. “Ah…” I don’t even know what to say. My stomach turns queasy again.
Why I didn’t realize that, of course, Armando was the one who told them I was award-winning. Who else?
And then further realization sinks in. I gasp. “Are you Grace?”
She stares at me with bald curiosity. “You’re dating him. Wow. I didn’t see that one coming.”
Her fiancé frowns. “You and Armando?” he demands, wagging a finger from me to my cell phone.
“No. Well, we were. But it’s…”
I don’t know why it feels so wrong to say no. I want to claim Armando as mine in front of these people. In front of his ex-girlfriend and her new fiancé. Maybe it’s to help restore Armando’s pride, maybe mine. I’m not sure.
“It’s complicated. But yes,” I answer, lifting my chin.
“Whoa. Okay. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make this awkward,” Grace says. “Armando told me I should come here to order the flowers for my wedding, but he didn’t let on that you two were an item. Congratulations. I mean, I’m really glad for him. For you both.”
My stomach churns at the lie. At wishing we had something to be glad for.
Strangely, I think she means it.
Her boyfriend looks at me with a cool, assessing gaze that unnerves me. Like, what the heck is he trying to figure out?
My hand drops protectively to my abdomen, and his gaze tracks the movement.
I clear my throat. “The total on your deposit is $1348,” I say.
“Sure, doll.” Emilio pulls out a wad of cash with that swagger that I’m used to seeing from my mafioso customers and peels off fourteen hundred dollar bills. “Keep the change and give my lady a nice bouquet, all right? Whatever she wants.” He turns to Grace. “I’m gonna step outside and make a phone call, doll.” He leans in to kiss her cheek.
I’m turned off by the fact that he calls us both doll. I sort of instantly hate him for hurting Armando although that’s irrational. If he hadn’t stolen Grace away, Armando might still be with her. And that would leave me without ever experiencing what it meant to be consumed by a man like him. To swim in his intensity.
“I’ll make you something special,” I tell Grace because there’s no one else in the shop, and I can spare a few minutes to throw something together that she’ll love. I’m still trying to impress her, despite the fact that she broke Armando’s heart.
