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“His, probably,” he said flatly. “He is paying, and let’s be real, all insults should probably be tax deductible.”
I snorted. “True.”
“I’ll give him that much.”
“Generous.”
“Better than what he probably gave me,” he mumbled.
My gaze shot to his. “Oh, uh. Yeah. Sorry about that.”
He waved me off. “I’ve been to the clinic. I’m fine, but still... if I weren’t, we’d be finding a way to get me the murder flowers.”
I laughed again. God, I hadn’t laughed this much in a long time.
I pulled up the Vintage Emporium customer details and copied it over, wondering how on earth I could ask this guy his name without encroaching on privacy issues.
“Keats,” he said.
My head shot up at my name. He was reading the framed certificates on the wall, then my name tag on my apron. “So, Keats McCulloch. Is that your real name?”
“Ah . . . yes?”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“Well, I’m sure it is. Just not sure why you’d think it wasn’t real.”
“It’s unusual.”
“I have my father to thank for it,” I volunteered.
“A fan of the literary arts?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a fabulous name. Right alongside Lord Byron and Percy Shelley, and here I am sounding like an old person’s home.”
I tried not to laugh and failed. “An old person’s home? Like Shady Pines?”
“Linden Acres.”
I swallowed the outburst of laughter that almost escaped. “Oh.”
“Thank you for not laughing. I can see the restraint it cost you. I also appreciate theGolden Girlsreference.”
I laughed so hard I snorted. Even Lina cast me a look over her shoulder. “Linden Acres. It’s a nice name.”
“Nice.” He nodded. “In my industry, having nice used as a descriptor is a kiss of death.”
“And what is your industry?”
I couldn’t be blamed for asking when he was the one who brought it up.
“I’m a personal shopper.”
“Oh.” I don’t know why that surprised me. I had no idea that was a real job. “What exactly does a personal shopper do?”
“I work for people who have more money than time, basically. They give me lists of what they need for an upcoming event or vacation, and I make sure they have it.”
