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1
THATCHER
“Stop tailgating.”
I slid my gaze to my mother and adjusted my grip on the steering wheel. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You should be two seconds behind that truck.”
The pink flower truck ahead of us passed a street sign, and it was exactly one-point-five seconds later that we passed it too. I slowed a fraction of an inch, then gave her a tight smile. “Better?”
“Much.” She adjusted the box on her lap. It was so big she could barely see over it, and yet she still thought she needed to side-seat drive. “I still can’t believe that girl canceled on you hours before the wedding. I hope you’re not planning to see her again. I didn’t like her.”
I smirked. “I think it’s safe to say she’s not planning to see me again. That’s pretty much what it means when you tell someone you’re just not that into them.”
“Did she say that?”
“She did.”
“Oh, now I really don’t like her.”
I chuckled. “I guess I don’t like her much either. But now it looks like I’m going stag to this wedding.”
Mom frowned. “That’s a shame. Now there will be an empty seat at your table, and they’ve already paid for her meal. Don’t you know anyone else you could bring?”
“Uh, no.”
We pulled into the lot of the venue, the flower truck apparently going the same place as us. Which made sense. It was a wedding, after all. I parked next to the truck and hopped out to help my mom unload. She’d been close with the bride’s mom for years, even though we’d lived in the next town over, so she was here early to help set up.
And I was here because now that I’d gotten stationed forty minutes away at the Marine base in Beaufort, my mom took full advantage of the unpaid labor that came with having a son.
I heaved a box of centerpiece items out of the trunk, careful not to break any of the glass bowls stacked inside. When I looked up, a gorgeous blonde hopped out of the flower truck, her long ponytail swaying behind her.
She offered me a small wave and a smile, and my heart stuttered in my chest.
“Hey,” I said, approaching her on the way to the curb. “You’re the flower lady for the wedding?”
Her blue eyes flicked to the sign on the truck, and she smirked at my ever-so-smooth opening line. “I’m the florist, yep.”
“Florist, right.”
“And you’re the…” She leaned forward, peeking into the open box in my arms. “Bowl guy?”
“Centerpiece deliveryman,” I said, raising my chin.
She grinned. “Ah, important job. I believe you’ll be scattering some of these rose petals around the bowls, then.”
“Oh, no scattering for me. I’m just the manual labor. If I tried to put all this stuff together it would definitely look like a five-year-old did it.”
“Thatcher Charles, are you going to bring those bowls over here, or would you like me to take them off your hands?” my mother asked, having already dropped off the box she’d held and returned for more.
In my mind, the answer was swift. I’d love to ditch the box and continue talking to this beautiful florist. But since she probably had work to do and my mother would probably kill me if that were my response, I sighed. “Duty calls.”
“Well, if you happen to be bored when you’re finished unloading, I could use some manual labor myself.”
I blinked at her. “Uh…”
“With the flowers,” she said quickly, hooking a thumb at the truck. I’m short-handed today. Well, every day lately, and I have a lot to carry. I can’t pay you for your time, but I would be really grateful for an extra set of arms.”
