Pansies

“Not sure. What do you recommend? I mean, red roses seem so common. But classic. Guh, I don’t know.”

The fed-up voice on the phone makes me smile.

It’s also the tenth time today I’ve received basically the exact same phone call.

“May I ask what your budget is, sir?” I say in my most polite tone, shifting the phone to my other ear as I curl a ribbon around the blade of a pair of scissors.

“That doesn’t matter,” he snaps. “I’m in the doghouse. Say, seventy-five dollars? I have no idea. Is that too little? Too much? Five hundred dollars? I just have no clue. I’ve never given anyone flowers before—my mom ordered the corsages in high school. But I gotta start now.”

I smile into the phone. Poor, hapless fool. “You can get a nice bouquet at either price point. At this time of year, roses aren’t in season, so they’re significantly more expensive than later in the summer. We fly them in from the Caribbean.”

He gasps. “My god, what about the carbon footprint? I can’t do that. What do you have that’s local. Isn’t there something from around here? Pansies or something?”

“Pansies are too delicate for cut flowers. They can be sent in a pretty pot, but that’s well under your budget. I’m happy to do it if you like.”

His long-suffering sigh comes over the phone like a gust of wind. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Why don’t we start with you telling me who the flowers are for. Male or a female?”

“Female. One who will never want to speak with me again.”

I stifle a chuckle. I want to ask what he did to his wife or girlfriend, but some things are none of my business.

“Tell me about here,” I say instead. “What are her favorite colors? What’s she like?”

“Um. She likes blue. She mostly wears black. She’s in fashion.”

“There isn’t really much in the way of black or blue flowers. Those sound like a bruise. You may be onto something with the pansies. But what if I put together something very chic and modern in the seventy-five dollar range?”

“Make it one fifty.”

“Alright. Thank you.”

Desperate fool.

I take the guy’s credit card information and the address for delivery. He’s about to hang up, but I stop him. “What shall I put on the card?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I said, what shall message would you like me to write on the card.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ah,” I say, recognition dawning. “I will do that. And a name?”

“Reed. It doesn’t need a signature. She’ll know I sent them.”

“How? If you’ve never sent her flowers?”

“Because I have a lot to be sorry for.”

“Shall I skip the name?”

He sighs. “No.” A pause. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

I hang up and get to work.

The next day I get a call, and the voice sounds familiar. “Um, hi. This is Reed. I ordered a bouquet from you yesterday. And it seemed to have worked. So, um. Thank you.”

I smile into the phone. “You’re welcome.”

“What I want to know is, can you do this every week?”

I furrow my brows. “Sure. But not to question, are you really in that much trouble? When I dropped off the bouquet yesterday, she seemed gleefully happy.”

Another pause.

“You delivered the bouquet yourself?”

“Yes. I have drivers, but they’d all gone on their runs, so it fell to me to do it.”

“And she seemed okay?”

“Very much so.”

She seemed like a raging uptight bitch, to be honest, but she melted when she saw the flowers.

“Okay. Good. Keep it up. Next week, same time, same budget, same mood. Different design?”

“I’d be happy to do that for you, Reed.”

“Then just keep my credit card on file. And please use it.”

“Great, thank you. Have a great day.”

I record the order and go back to work.

The following week, while I could send Kyle to deliver, I decide to investigate further. If Reed weren’t straight, I’d have thought his warm voice sexy.

Hell, it was sexy. But I couldn’t do anything about it.

That was the problem of being in the flower business. Always attending weddings. Always never in love.

Still, a boy could dream.

The place where his girlfriend lived was a modern glass and metal and concrete place that needed the flowers desperately to soften it. When I went up to the doorman, I felt incredibly underdressed in my skinny jeans and black shop T-shirt.

But as owner, no way was I buying polo shirts. And I’ve tried suits and ties. It doesn’t do well with the amount of moving I have to do on a daily basis.

The girl who accepts the flowers stares at me.

“These are from Reed,” I say. “He says he’s sorry. Again.”

“He’d better be.” She puts a hand on her hips. And a smile broadens her mouth. “These are beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

I nod.

“Are you single?”

Sheesh. Reed is not doing well if his girlfriend is asking me out.

“Yes. Always. Perpetually,” I say with a laugh. “But—”

“Are you looking?” she asks.

“I’m gay,” I blurt.

She chuckles, a warm sound that doesn’t match her surroundings. But that I like. “I guessed that.”

“Oh.” I put my hands in my pockets. After I deliver the flowers, I’m generally ill at ease. I spend most of my time fiddling with greenery. Once it’s gone, I don’t know what to do with myself. “Well, I suppose I’m looking. At least I’m not not looking.”

“I think you’re totally my brother’s type.”

“Does he always have you set him up on dates?”

“Never. That’s why I want to follow my intuition with this.”

I shrug. “I figured I was perpetually undatable. But what do I know?”

“Are you a criminal?”

I shake my head.

“Weird fetishes?”

I grin. “No. Not unless you count being gay. Which, of course, I hope you don’t.”

“That’s not weird.” She grins at me. “Let me see what I can do. I can find you here?” She points to the card on the bouquet.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s my business.”

“I’m about to make it my business,” she jokes.

The following week, Reed calls and I deliver the flowers to his girlfriend.

“You again?” she asks. “And these are lovely, by the way.”

“I thought you’d like them.” I want to ask what Reed did that was so bad he needs to apologize for three straight weeks, but it really isn’t any of my business.

“I’m working on him,” she says. “He says he’s busy, but I really just think he’s shy and awkward.”

I nod. “That makes two of us. I’m generally better with the plant kingdom than anything else.”

She gets a sly look on her face. “Maybe I’ll just send him to go talk to you.”

“You do that.”

I’m stripping tulips of extra leaves when the bell to the shop opens and a guy walks in. He’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans, but it’s the Silicon Valley billionaire version, not the thug life version.

He catches my face and does a doubletake.

He’s really gorgeous. Dark brown hair, tanned skin, light eyes. Looks familiar, actually.

“Hi. Um, I’ve ordered flowers from you before,” he says. “Over the phone. And I’d like to, um, do it again.”

“Sure. When is the last time you ordered? I’ll look you up.”

“My name’s Reed,” he says.

I give him a longer look. And my cheeks heat, because he really is cute. Too bad he’s on the outs with his girlfriend.

“Ah. I know. The one who is perpetually sorry.”

“That’s me.”

“Is Briony doing better these days?”

“Yeah. I think she’s on her way to forgiveness. At least I hope she is.” He squares his shoulders. “Actually, she talked me into coming here to ask you out.”

I stare at him. “I thought she was your girlfriend?”

“What? No. My sister.”

And everything loosens in me. I look at him in a new light.

“Oh. That’s very interesting.”