One last clutch of my core reminds me that I want something, but it’s definitely never going to be Lorenzo Toscani.
Chapter 1
Abi
Several weeks later . . .
“Girls just wanna have fu-un,” I sing along, not caring that I’m off-key as I tie a hand-dyed hot pink silk ribbon around a bundle of colorful garden roses while Cyndi Lauper belts her heart out over the SweetPea Boutique’s sound system. My fingers move faster as I near completion, left, right, and left, creating a fanciful bow. I’ve done this so many times my hands do the work mindlessly, leaving me to toss my head a bit as I loudly add, “they just wanna-a-a.”
Securing the carefully prepared loops temporarily with a pair of bobby pins before a dab of hot glue and a final knot, I spruce the flowers and then critically eye my creation. Seeing no flaw, a sense of jubilance fills me.
Perfect!
Creating beautiful flower arrangements never gets old for me, no matter how many times I do it. It’s been my passion for as long as I can remember, starting with wadded up handfuls of dandelion weeds when I was a little girl. But that changed quickly when I’d snagged some kitchen scissors and absolutely butchered the rose bushes out back.
“Look at what you’ve done! Destroyed!” our estate gardener yells at me as I cower, the bouquet falling to my side though I don’t let it go.
Mom runs in to check out the racket. Once her quick eyes figure out that no one is hurt, she asks, “Abigail, why did you cut the roses?”
Not hearing anger, I hold the bundle up again, showing it off. “They were so pretty, I wanted to bring them inside. I arranged them to show their best sides and hide the dark spots on the petals.” And with thorn-pricked and scratched hands, I hand the bouquet to her. “For you.”
“Oh, Abi!” Tears glisten in her eyes as she takes the flowers and holds them to her nose, inhaling deeply. “Thank you.”
The gardener clears his throat and Mom looks up at the reminder. “Right, of course. Abi, Edward works very hard to grow these roses and you just chopped them down. You did a beautiful job with the arrangement, and it’s very sweet of you, but you need to ask next time, okay?”
I nod, mouthing an apology to Edward.
Back in the shop, I smile. Mom’s tearful happiness had been the spark that ignited my love of arrangements, of making people feel appreciated with a beautiful design with a sole purpose of being pretty. I also think back to Edward, who’d lovingly and patiently showed me how to grow and prune the gardens after that first run-in. I apologized many times over for butchering his roses once I learned exactly what it took to grow them.
And I’d promised to always treat the flowers I acquire with the proper respect and honor they deserve while showcasing their beauty for people to enjoy.
That’s why I started SweetPea Boutique, as a way to do just that. And I’m good. That’s not a humble brag because there’s no sense in being modest. I’m not a florist who throws together a dozen red roses in a plastic wrap and calls it a day. No, we create art here. We do the best weddings, the top company affairs, and serve people who want quirky, unique, custom designs.
My little shop, which is lime green with big, bold pink bubble letters and a black- and white-striped awning, is filled with lush earthen smells, flowers you can’t get anywhere else in the state, and handmade vases and ribbons of every size and color.
A lot of people don’t get it. I could get by quite easily on my last name alone. I could’ve gone into the family business and worked side-by-side with my dad and Courtney, wearing Prada power suits and sky-high Jimmy Choo heels to board meetings where we toss around ROI and billion-dollar profit margins like they’re no big deal.
But I’ve always been different, marched to the beat of my own drummer, or so I’ve been told. I wiggle my bare toes in my comfortable and sensibly waterproof Crocs, sure that’s probably the case.
But I am who I am, with no interest in changing anything.
Dad worried, of course. It’s who he is. He’d tried to talk me into following in his footsteps, and in a way, I had . . . by starting my own business from the ground up. Once he’d seen I had a business plan, including an accelerated payoff schedule for the loans I needed to take out, he’d understood and been proud of me.
The last few years have only solidified that. Especially when I paid those loans off.
SweetPea Boutique is mine now. All mine.
I can’t believe it, but it’s true. All because of floral arrangements like the one in my hand, but there’s no rest for the wicked, and I won’t sit around on my laurels. No, I always want to do better, be more.
Triumphant, I hold up the bouquet. “What do ya think?” I ask Janey, my right-hand woman. She’s been with me since day one and is an amazing floral designer in her own right, but thankfully, she has no desire to do the business side of the business. She’s happy to create and keep me from going insane with our workload.
From her workstation, a stainless-steel prep table where she has orchids and pink ginger lilies trimmed and ready to arrange, she turns a critical eye to the bouquet. I watch her face, looking for any telltale signs that something’s wrong.
Janey’s short, bleached white-blonde hair is pushed back behind a rhinestone headband, leaving her brown eyes exposed. They scan left and right, then around, up, and down, leaving no bud unexamined. She lifts one shoulder, tilting her head as she frowns. “Meh. It’s fine.”
I blink, my eyes jumping to the bouquet. “What? It’s gorgeous!” An instant later, I ask, “What’s wrong with it?”
Her smile blooms quickly, bright and white. “Gotcha! It’s gorgeous. Claire will love it.”
She might’ve been kidding, but now, I’m looking the bouquet over again with second thoughts. “Maybe I’ll add a few Swarovski crystals?”
Janey laughs, but when I don’t laugh along, she sighs. “I was just fucking with you, Abs. Here, how’s this instead?”
She opens her eyes wide, her hands covering her open mouth as she gasps sharply. “Oh. My. God. It’s gor-ge-ous. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. You are an artiste!” She adds a polite golf clap and then her drawn-on brows lift sardonically, her overdramatized reaction turning to snark. “Is that what you were looking for?”
I shove at her shoulder with a smile. “Bitch.” There’s zero heat to the word, and she merely laughs in response.
“Seriously, it’s great. It’s exactly what Claire asked for, only better because it’s got that Abi touch.” She mimes sprinkling glitter around the flowers.
Ooh, that’s an idea . . . maybe I could spritz floral glitter over the bouquet? I eye it, considering.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. The only thing you’re doing with it is putting it in the fridge to wait for the wedding planner to get here.” She points a warning finger my way. I’m the boss, but she’s bossy, and I would never risk pissing her off because she’s a force in the way a tornado is a little wind. Aggressive, fierce, and destructive if challenged.
So I put the bouquet in the cooler as instructed. “Happy?”
“Exceedingly.” She beams at having gotten her way. Again.
“As long as Claire’s happy, that’s all that matters.”
Claire Johnson, my biggest client to date, is a wealthy Instagram influencer-slash-self-motivation coach. She’s what my dad would call new money, like us, really. Someone who’s worked their way up from the ground floor, capitalizing on a niche she carved out for herself. Alternatively, she’s marrying old money. Her fiancé, Cole Kennedy—not those Kennedys, but close enough—comes from generations of millionaires and has a trust fund the size of a small country’s annual gross domestic product.
I’d know because Cole went to school with Ross, and between that elite small circle of a network and my working relationship with their top-notch wedding planner, Beth, I managed to get this contract.
And I will not blow this opportunity.
Because it’s not just a wedding. Besides the
big day, this is an entire Event, with a huge three-foot-tall, blinking neon, capital E, starting with tonight’s dinner. It’s being held here in the city as a way of introducing the bride and groom’s families before we all travel for the ceremony and festivities.
Yeah, travel. Because of course, the wedding is a destination one, taking place on Aruba’s famed coast at the famous five-star Casa Del Mario resort, with an RSVP list filled to the brim with the rich, famous, and political elite. Alongside an orchestra, a custom choreographed fireworks display, and other live entertainment, People magazine will also be present to film what is being called THE wedding of the decade.
It’s a lot of pressure, amplified by needing to ship everything to the resort and make arrangements on site daily for the various lead-up events to the big ceremony and reception.
In other words, I can’t fuck up tonight’s dinner. This is my last at-home opportunity to show Claire what I can do and that I have her event well in hand.
I shouldn’t worry this much. I’m excellent at what I do, I have lists of my lists to be prepared for any eventuality, and Claire has been nothing but accepting of my ideas, but anxiety rushes through me despite all those reassurances.
The shop phone rings, and I hear Samantha, my front desk assistant, answer. “SweetPea Boutique, how may I help make today beautiful?” I can hear the smile in her voice, but then, more dryly, she follows up with, “Oh. Of course. We’ll be ready.”
“Abi!” she yells a second later. Hopefully, she hung up first or whoever was on the phone is probably deaf now.
I hiss, “What?”
Samantha runs to the back, eyes wild and bouncing around the space. “Shit! Clean up, clean up! Quick!” She sounds a bit manic as she shoves cut leaves into a trash can and dumps my tumbler of water onto a nearby plant.
Whatever’s got her riled up, she still cares for the plants. She’s probably the most talented green thumb I’ve met since Edward, able to nurse plants back from near-death and make them bloom full and lush. That’s why I hired her, for her botany degree, but thankfully, she’s great with customers too and can handle watching the shop when Janey and I go to Aruba to work the wedding. But right now, she’s in a tailspin heading for a crash landing.
I step in front of her, placing my hands on her shoulders to stop her from swirling the drain. “Samantha. What’s happening?”
She blinks, coming out of her stupor, and swallows, looking back at the phone on the counter. “That was . . . that was one of Claire’s people. She’s coming. In ten minutes.”
I don’t get it. That’s totally expected. They’re supposed to be picking up the arrangements for tonight’s dinner, so why is Samantha freaking out?
“Okay. They’re picking up the flowers. We’re ready. They’re done.”
She shakes her head, her blonde hair swishing wildly. “No, no . . . she’s coming. Claire is coming!”
What she’s actually saying sinks in and my gut drops. “What?” I shriek. “Why?”
Don’t get me wrong, Claire is quite lovely, down to earth even, and she was perfectly kind the few times I met her in person to get approvals for the floral plan, but there’s no reason for her to be coming to a simple pick-up mere hours before a dinner where she’ll be the guest of honor and hostess with the mostest.
She should be doing a Get Ready With Me video for her followers or a meditation photo shoot with the sunset. Not picking up flowers like a courier or personal assistant.
“I don’t know,” Samantha says, answering the questions I already forgot I asked. “It was one of her people on the phone. An assistant, I guess? She said Claire is coming, in person, and has an update on the wedding that she wants to deliver in person.” She blinks and then needlessly says one more time, “In. Person. Abi. Claire Johnson is coming here.”
I guess Samantha is more of a fan that I realized.
“No autograph hounding. You hear me? We’ll behave like she’s any other customer.” My words have the force of an order, and she throws me a poorly formed salute. “Good. Now clean up!”
Despite my words, I start scurrying around frantically too. Samantha and Janey follow suit, clearing off tables, gently tossing loose flowers into the buckets in the cooler, and shoving the leftover donuts from this morning into the trash. At least it smells amazing in here. No fake air fresheners needed. We’ve got all-natural floral scents wafting around and blending beautifully.
“Go watch out in the front and give us a warning when they get here,” I tell Samantha when I realize she’s hyperventilating.
She runs to the window, peeking out but ducking down to the side so she’s not seen, as though she’s some secret spy on a stakeout mission. I roll my eyes, huffing out a laugh at her antics because if I don’t laugh, I might go a little cuckoo too.
Janey and I meet eyes. “We’ve got this,” she says with firmness.
“We do,” I say just as solidly.
Neither of us believes it. This is not the norm. Celebrity customers don’t come in like this, unscheduled and with last-minute updates.
Fuck, I hope I’m not getting fired before I even get to show her the work I’ve done. I should’ve done the damn crystals on that bouquet. But it’s too late.
“Ca-caw, ca-caw,” Samantha screeches.
“What the hell is that?” I bark.
“That’s the secret sign,” she explains. “She really does drive a pink glitter Escalade! They’re parking right now.”
Shit.
I look down at myself. The shop might be looking better, but I’m a mess. I quickly pull my ponytail holder out and shake my head, sending my thick, dark hair tumbling down my back, swipe under my eyes to make sure yesterday’s mascara hasn’t run down into my undereye bags, and smooth my water-spotted T-shirt. That’s as good as it can get right now, so hopefully, Claire will see that I’m putting my everything into making her flowers beautiful, even if it means I look like an advertisement for college-broke, don’t-give-a-fuck chic.
A man in a black suit rushes out from the driver’s seat to open the side door of the SUV, and out steps Claire Johnson in a trendy pink jumpsuit and sparkly hoop earrings. Her blonde hair is impeccable, the curls reaching down her back, and her makeup is expertly applied. She’s at least partially ready for tonight’s festivities, so why is she here? She’s followed by another woman, slightly older, with frosty hair and wearing a tailored black designer dress.
Who is that? I wonder with a frown. I don’t like surprises when it comes to my work, and that woman practically screams SURPRISE!
Judging by the snooty expression on her face, I can tell that whoever she is, she thinks her shit doesn’t sink. I know the look. I have a lot of practice pegging her type, especially when people from our social circle hire me for their events. I walk a line where I’m ‘the help’ but also on ‘their level’, socially speaking. People struggle with how to treat me—dismissive and holier than thou because I’m just a florist, but never able to forget my last name and the power it wields.
I do a quick search of my mental Rolodex of Claire’s family, and then Cole’s, but nothing matches the stranger. Claire and her companion stop for a moment outside the shop, seeming to take in the colorfulness of SweetPea, and judging by the look on the older woman’s face, she’s not impressed. She even seems to say something that causes Claire to frown.
But there’s no time for me to process it all as they move toward the door.
“Best behavior!” I hiss to Samantha and Janey, and fine, to myself as well, before the door swings open. “Welcome to SweetPea Boutique,” I say cheerily, trying to hide my anxiety. “Great to see you again, Claire.”
“Abi!” Claire exclaims as she floats through the doors, smiling warmly at me and holding out her arms. “It’s so good to see you!”
I can’t help but smile as I come from around the counter to give Claire the usual air hug greeting. I know the designer jumpsuit she’s wearing is this season’s latest and retails for well int
o the four digits, and I’m covered in green stains, but to my surprise, she instead pulls me into a warm embrace, air kissing one cheek and then the other.
“Great to see you too. I wasn’t expecting you to pick up the arrangements in person?” It should be a statement, but it’s most definitely a question, and she hears the concern in my voice.
Claire waves away my worry with a manicured hand. “It’s okay, I know how it is to run a business! I should’ve told you I was going to stop by well in advance. I just wanted to view them for myself and give you an update on a few changes I’m making to the wedding crew.”
“Changes?” I ask in confusion. Has she come here to fire me personally?
Claire nods, motioning to the frowning woman beside her. “This is my new wedding planner who you’ll be working with for the wedding and who will be in charge of basically everything, Meredith Wildemen. Meredith, this is Abi Andrews, the florist who’ll be handling all the flower arrangements.”
What the heck happened to Beth?
I want to ask about the woman Claire originally hired to plan her wedding, someone I’ve worked with many times before and who is also much nicer than this new woman seems, judging by the scowls she’s flashing around.
But instead of voicing my thoughts out loud and making things awkward, I say, “Nice to meet you, Meredith,” extending my hand in greeting and smiling warmly. “Looking forward to working together.”
“Hmm.” She hums through pressed lips, examining my dirt-lined and chipped-polish nails. Meredith’s facial expression doesn’t budge as she slowly takes my hand and barely touches fingertips as though I’ll contaminate her with actual filth before letting go abruptly. “So you’re the flower girl Claire has been going on and on about? It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The tone of her voice sounds like it’s anything but, and calling me flower girl grates my nerves, but I keep the smile on my face as she taps her watch thoughtfully. “We do need to see the arrangements. That is, if you have them ready, Miss Andrews?”
My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon Page 2