Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 70037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“Hey, Mikey.”
“Hey, girl.” He smiles. “I think you’ve got an admirer.”
“What?”
“These are for you, hon,” he says, and I feel both girls turn to look at me.
“What?” I repeat. I expected him to say the bouquet was for one of my employees. Both Rachelle and Aubrey are in high school. They are beautiful and on the cheerleading team . . . or squad—whatever you want to call it. And judging by the number of cute boys who come in here while they’re working, they’re both popular.
“These are for you,” he repeats as he sets the flowers on the counter. “Can you sign this?”
I scribble my name, then examine the flowers for a card as Mikey says “Later” and heads out.
“Who are they from?” Rachelle asks.
“It’s not your birthday,” Aubrey says, telling me something I know.
“I don’t know who they’re from, and no, it’s not my birthday.” I finally spot a small envelope between a bunch of peonies. I open it and slide the card out, reading the words three times, since I’m positive I’m seeing things.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I hope you’re having the same problem.
Call me,
Gaston
His number is neatly printed at the bottom.
“So who are they from?” Rachelle asks, jumping up and down excitedly at my side.
“Um . . .” I glance at her, then at the flowers. He remembered not only my name but also the name of my shop, and then he sent me flowers—something I don’t think any man has ever done for me before. An odd sense of excitement begins to fill my chest.
“Obviously, whoever they’re from has serious fricking class, because this bouquet must have cost, like, over two hundred dollars,” Aubrey observes.
I swallow and look back down at the card once again.
“So tell us who they’re from,” Rachelle repeats.
“A guy I met on Saturday.” I lean forward to smell a yellow rose. “I . . . we . . . I don’t know. We spoke, and he was very nice and funny. I just didn’t think I would ever hear from him again.”
“Wasn’t Saturday Leah’s bachelorette party?” Aubrey asks.
“It was; that’s where I met him. He owns the club we went to,” I answer, blown away by the flowers. Seriously, they are beautiful.
“So you just spoke to him one time, and he sent you flowers?” Aubrey looks a little confused. Heck, I’m confused too. I’ve never had a guy send me flowers after a date, so I would never expect them after a short conversation.
“Of course he sent her flowers.” Rachelle rolls her eyes. “He wanted to make a statement, because she’s hot and he knows tons of guys want her.”
“Hashtag retweet.” Aubrey nods and then asks, “Did he send his number?”
I look between both girls, wondering what universe they live in. Tons of guys don’t want me. Heck, not even one guy wants me. “Um . . .”
“Did he?” Rachelle prompts.
“Are you going to call him?” Aubrey continues.
“He sent it, but I don’t know.” Yes, he was easy to talk to, funny, and charming, but I’m not sure if he is actually interested in me or if he’s interested because I didn’t immediately fall at his feet, which I’m sure happens often. Being as good looking as he is and owning a club is a double whammy. I have no doubt that beautiful women are always coming on to him and telling him exactly what he wants to hear.
“Was he hot?” Rachelle asks.
“Very.” I nod.
“So are you playing hard to get?” she asks.
“No, honey, I’m not playing any games. I’m just trying to look out for myself. Sometimes men will show you what they think you want to see, and then once they get you in their grasp, you figure out it was all a lie.”
“But what if it’s not a lie?” Aubrey prompts. “I mean, I don’t know very many guys who would send flowers to a woman after only just talking to her. My dad doesn’t even send flowers to my mom, and they’ve been married like forever and ever.”
“I think you should call him,” Rachelle says.
“I’ll think about it.” I look around. The four high tables near the front window are now empty following our after-school rush, and the only customers in the shop are a mom and her son, sitting at one of the kid tables. Judging by the amount of icing on the little boy’s face, he’s enjoying his cupcake, and his mom is talking on the phone. “Do you girls mind finishing up the cookies in the back? I need to put the finishing touches on Leah’s cake so I can pack it up tonight and drive it down to Tennessee tomorrow for the wedding.”
“For sure,” Aubrey agrees with a smile that matches Rachelle’s. Both girls love baking, but normally I’m done with everything by the time they come in after school, so they don’t always get to help out with that.