Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“Great,” he says. “Appreciate that.”
And I appreciate Veronica’s upsell to four-dozen flowers, but why did the dude have to mention unmentionables? Now I’m thinking of teddys, nighties, and those cropped bras that can fry a man’s brain.
I bet Veronica wears one of those bras. Boobs on the half shell I call them.
Yup, in one fell swoop, there goes my monkish restraint. Here comes my curious cat. Once the customer leaves, I flip the sign on the door to say closed, then make my way to Veronica’s half of the shop.
“So now customers are asking for lingerie recommendations? I’m a little surprised,” I say, editing out the part where I ask: how do you know so much about what people need, from friendship to the boudoir? Her expertise is unexpected. “No shade on Iris—my friend does a great job—but no one ever asked her where to get underwear.”
Veronica laughs softly then drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “No one is getting anyone underwear, Milo. He’s getting his wife of twenty years a teddy, a garter belt, and stockings.”
I blink, a little hot under the collar. “He told you that?”
“He might as well have. It’s a Thursday night and he’s bringing her flowers that represent passion. I think it’s safe to say he’s not popping into the nearest Target to grab her the store brand three-pack of cotton undies on sale for half off,” she says, as she organizes the display of greeting cards on the counter.
But I bet you’d look good enough to eat in the Target brand, or any brand, or nothing at all.
“Good for them,” I say, but it comes out strangled. I try again to get to the heart of the matter. “I’ve gotta say—customers like talking to you. You’re like an Ask Me Anything of the flower world.”
As she stacks the cards, she gives a little shrug. “It’s probably because of my freckles.” She wiggles her nose, showing off the spray of dots across her nose. “Supposedly, they make me seem more approachable and less threatening. Who knew freckles were so . . . inviting? But mostly, I give off an ask-me-anything vibe. I probably should have worked at an information desk. Maybe I missed my true calling.”
In her corner, Trudy chomps down on the toy gator.
The soundtrack of a dog killing a stuffy puts us in safer territory than lingerie chatter. “You have a gift, Veronica, and I’m glad this worked out. I needed someone who could take the bloom side of the business under her wing. I’ve had a lot to deal with since Trudy came back.”
She tilts her head. “Where was she?”
Ah, shit. I didn’t intend to go there, but I walked into that. “With my ex,” I say, the words as bitter as the memory of Callie’s lying, stealing, and cheating. “We had a dog custody thing. She took Trudy, even though she was mine. I adopted her years before I even met my ex, but I had to go to arbitration to get her back, and . . .” I stop myself before I go further. No one likes hearing about past loves, especially from their boss. “And now she’s mine again.”
Veronica winces. “That sounds terrible.” She crosses the shop, stopping at Trudy, whose mouth is full of green fur. “Sweet girl, are you glad to be home?” she asks.
Trudy drops the toy and licks Veronica’s hand.
Fuck me, that is too sweet. I better not look, or my heart will scamper over to the two of them.
But I can’t pull my gaze away from the sight of the woman petting my dog.
“Yes, you are, you sweetie-pie. You’re back with your person.”
Be still, my beating heart. Veronica didn’t say baby to the dog, or dog daddy to me, and I couldn’t be happier.
Veronica stands and smooths out her apron. “She’s clearly yours, and I’m glad she’s back.”
“Me too,” I say, and since some truths bear repeating, I say it again. “Me too.” Then I shift gears, moving away from this getting-to-know-you chat. It could lead to text transgressions later. “Anyway, we’re both glad you’re here.”
“Thank you,” Veronica says, and lets out a long breath as she returns to closing up, grabbing the broom to sweep. “I really like the job so far, and I need it,” she says as I join her, sorting the flowers in the cooler case.
“But you do want to return to publishing,” I say. This job is temporary. It ends in three months.
“Definitely, but I’m glad to do this in the meantime.” Her voice is a little tight.
I want to ask what happened at her last gig, but chances are her company let her go because of cutbacks or some stupid shit. A part of me imagines asking her out in three months when we’re no longer working together. But entertaining that line of thinking won’t get me through the rest of the summer, so I table those dangerous thoughts.