Series: Chicago Sin Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“I’ll do that. Have a great weekend.”
He starts to leave then turns back. “Everything okay around here? Anybody bothering you?”
I shoot a glance at Josie, my BFF-slash-slacker employee who’s putting a chrysanthemum arrangement in the cooler. She smirks because we just had this conversation. These guys like to play hero.
“Everything’s fine. But thanks for asking.” My smile is genuine because as much as I like to roll my eyes and snark about my customers, I’m secretly fond of them. Probably because when I was fifteen, their five-dollar tips made me feel rich. And the romantic florist in me still appreciates their chivalry.
I like the safety of being on their watch. Knowing if something did go wrong—if I got held up or I had a stalker situation—I’d know exactly who to see to exact justice.
Lorenzo tips an invisible hat and leaves, and Josie snorts. “You’re right.”
I laugh. “Did I not tell you? At least one of them will offer to slay dragons for me every week. It’s kind of endearing.”
“Of course.” Josie nearly knocks an arrangement over as she pushes vases around on the cooler shelf. “The idea of roughing up some asshole for the pretty, defenseless florist gets them hard.”
“Mmm hmm. Cute, right?”
“Yeah, I guess you can’t complain about having your own private security team. And at least he wasn’t creepy about it. One dumbass yesterday bought flowers and then pulled out a rose and gave it to me. I was like, dude, if you’re going to ask for my number at least give me the whole bouquet.”
I snort. “Yeah, they’re players.” When I was in high school, I used to get all fluttery and nervous when the younger guys came in, thinking one might ask me out. I had this whole mafia-guy crush. They exuded confidence and power. They flashed their money, and they had swagger. I wasn’t naive enough to believe all the bluster, but it turned me on just the same. My secret fantasy.
But while they flirted up a storm with Mary Alice, they were only polite with me. I don’t know, maybe they don’t date Black women. Or maybe I was just a kid in their eyes and forever would be.
“Well, maybe not all of them, but at least half are players,” I amend.
Josie comes over and leans her elbows on the counter. Her gold hoop earrings swing. They’re giant—big enough to balance her poofy blonde curls.
Anxiety coils in the pit of my stomach as we get physically close to each other. It happens every time. Probably because I need to talk to her about her crappy work ethic but keep putting it off. I ignore the feeling, like always.
“Tell me you haven’t thought about taking one of them up on it. Not as a permanent thing but just to let him treat you to a nice dinner once in a while,” she says.
“Nah.”
“Uh huh.” Her tone implies disbelief.
“Okay, there was one, but he had a girlfriend. He never asked me out, but he charmed the socks off me every time he came in. And so good looking. He lectured me once when I was closing up about walking home alone at night and how it wasn’t safe. He insisted he escort me the couple of blocks. I found his protectiveness so freaking hot.”
“Which one?” Josie asks.
“I don’t know. I can’t remember his name,” I lie. I totally remember. Armando. Sexy smooth-talking Armando with that panty-melting smile.
But I was almost grateful he was engaged. Because as much as I crushed on him, I never, ever, want to date a mafia man. They cheat on their wives. They’re misogynists—they think women belong barefoot, home in the kitchen. They are dangerous. Extremely so. They commit crimes, they hurt people, even kill people. Yes, they are men, but there's a thick undertone of villain in every single one of them.
And Armando—he felt the most unsafe. Not like he’d hurt me physically.
But emotionally. I’d fall way too hard for a guy like him. It was good he disappeared.
“He doesn’t come in anymore. I haven’t seen him in a long time—like, years,” I tell Josie.
“Maybe he got whacked. You never know with these guys, right?”
I’m way too empathetic because that thought makes my stomach tighten up into a knot. I hardly knew the guy apart from selling him flowers for his fiancé every week. “Hope not. He seemed like he was going places.”
“Yep. Illegal places that landed him in Lake Michigan with cement shoes,” Josie jokes.
I refuse to entertain that idea. “Maybe he moved away. He and his girlfriend were engaged.” I know because he filled her apartment with every color of rose after she said yes. Mary Alice had to call for an extra shipment because he ordered so many.
“I’ll bet he’s dead. Or witness protection.” She shrugs and pushes an unfinished bouquet off to the side. “I’m going to take off, okay?”