What's Your Sign?

by Lila Monroe

  “There you are!” April and Poppy arrive. “Great party, Justin. You don’t mind a couple of gatecrashers, do you?”

  “Not if I know what’s good for me.”

  “Correct answer,” Poppy grins. “I’m glad to see you’re learning fast.”

  We get another round of drinks in, catching up on everything that’s been going on this week. Poppy is hard at work revamping the copy on Dylan’s hotel websites, and April has another wedding. “Gardenias!” she exclaims. “Where am I supposed to find gardenias this time of year?”

  “What about you guys?” Poppy asks. “What are you up to this weekend?”

  “Taking it easy, mostly,” Justin says, looking to me for confirmation. “Catching up on my horoscope. Maybe looking at a few apartments.”

  I glance at him in surprise. “Apartments?” I ask. “Are you thinking about moving?”

  “Possibly,” he says. “Depends on whether or not my ideal roommate is open to the idea.” He slips a finger into the belt loop of my jeans, tugging gently. “What do you think about looking at some places together?”

  My mouth drops open, surprised and delighted. I think of waking up next to him every morning, of picking out furniture and cooking lazy breakfasts and watching dumb Netflix marathons in bed late at night.

  And sex, obviously. Lots and lots of sex.

  “You know,” I say—stroking my chin exaggeratedly, pretending to consider it. “I think I could probably be convinced.”

  Justin grins, a smile that could power the entire New York City skyline. “OK then,” he says, ducking his head to kiss me. “Roomie.”

  I’m about to whip out my phone and start searching listings right that second when Charlie swings by, a margarita in one hand. “Uh-oh,” he says, lifting his chin toward the entrance. “Who invited the Big Man?”

  I follow his gaze and sure enough, there’s Justin’s dad picking his way through the crowd in a suit that probably cost more than my first car, looking uncomfortable and out of his element.

  “I mentioned the party to him,” Justin says, the surprise clear on his face. “But there’s no way I thought he’d show up. Dad!” he calls, waving the older man over. “You remember my girlfriend, Natalie.”

  Ashland’s gaze flickers over me. “How could I forget?”

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Rockford,” I lie.

  “Quite the celebration you’ve all got going on,” he says, looking over at the dance floor, where a few of the reporters from the metro desk have organized an impromptu conga line. “Very . . . spirited.”

  “The staff deserve it,” Justin says, shooting me a smile. “They’re the best in the business.”

  Ashland watches the dance floor for another moment, his expression registering vague horror as the conga line turns into a limbo/Cha-Cha Slide hybrid. Finally, he clears his throat. “Well, Justin,” he says, “I suppose it’s undeniable that you’ve done something here. To be clear, it’s not what I would have done. But it certainly is . . . something.”

  A heartwarming father-son moment it isn’t, but I’m pretty sure that’s what passes for high praise as far as Ashland’s concerned. “Uh, thanks, Dad,” Justin says, tipping his glass in his father’s direction. “That means a lot.”

  “Can we get you a drink, Uncle Ashland?” Charlie asks cheerfully. “Slippery nipple, maybe? Sex on the beach?”

  “Whiskey,” Ashland says immediately, looking desperate. “A double.”

  “Follow me,” Charlie says, leading him over to the bar.

  “He’s proud of you,” I tell Justin, reaching out and squeezing his hand once we’re alone again.

  “In his way,” Justin says wryly.

  “I’m proud of you, too,” I continue, moving closer. “And when we get home I fully intend to show you just how much.”

  “Is that so?” Justin asks with a smirk. “In that case, you want to get out of here right now?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  We make our way toward the exit, shrugging into our coats and stepping onto the elevator. We’ve made it halfway down when to my surprise Justin reaches out and hits the emergency stop, trapping us neatly between floors.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He grins wolfishly. “Don’t you remember?”

  I laugh, I can’t help it. That first encounter with him trapped in the elevator feels like a lifetime ago. I didn’t know it at the time, but it turned out to be the start of something spectacular. “I do seem to have a weird sense of deja vu,” I admit, smiling. “Probably nothing, though.”

  “Hmm,” Justin murmurs, pulling me closer. “Let’s see if I can’t jog your memory.”

  And let’s just say, we don’t relive our first meeting, we surpass it.

  Twice.

  THE END

  (Almost!)

  Thank you for reading! If you’ve enjoyed Natalie’s exploits, then I have great news: the next book in the series is available now - featuring some familiar faces ;)

  * * *

  Keep scrolling to read a sneak peek of April’s book. THE ROMEO EFFECT is available now! CLICK HERE to order or scroll to read Chapter One!

  >>>

  Discover the next book in the hilarious Cupids series - out now!

  Chapter One

  APRIL

  * * *

  A lot of people don’t realize, but a bouquet of flowers can mean way more than just, ‘I screwed up, forgive me’, and, ‘Let’s have sex.’

  I mean, sure, most of the people who walk through the door of my little flower shop are looking for one or the other – or, in the case of the guys who’ve been caught sexting with their exes, both. (Seriously, how hard is it to keep your dick in your pants and your passwords on lock?) But anyway, there’s a whole world to flowers, if you just look beyond the obvious.

  People have been using them to communicate for hundreds of years, from the symbolism in Japanese hanakatoba arrangements, to the way people used them to send coded messages in Victorian England. It’s part of the reason I started my shop, Bloom. The perfect flower can brighten someone’s day, become a treasured memory, and express emotions you’re not brave enough to put into words.

  It’s just my luck that 99% of my customers are looking for the perfect words to say, ‘let’s bang’.

  “Red roses?” I repeat to the man standing at the counter in front of me. Clearly, my poker face is as bad as ever, because my dismay comes through loud and clear.

  “Is something wrong with them?”

  “No,” I tell him hurriedly. “Roses are lovely. But red ones are… very traditional for a date.”

  And by ‘traditional’, I mean boring and cliché.

  “A first date,” he adds.

  Even worse.

  The guy looks around the shop. He’s actually kind of cute, if the whole ‘self-important Wall Street’ look is your thing, but a man’s taste in flowers tells me everything I need to know, and unfortunately for his date tonight, this guy is strictly a fumbled foreplay, jack-rabbit, clitor-what now? kind of a guy.

  The least I can do is make sure she gets a decent bouquet first.

  “Why don’t I put something together for you?” I offer with a smile. “Something bright and fresh, that says ‘optimism’ and ‘new beginnings’.”

  He gives a shrug. “I mean, I guess so.”

  He starts scrolling on his phone, which means that’s about as much effort as he wants to put into the gift. Never mind. I duck into the back refrigerator, where I keep most of my blooms in buckets of water for freshness. I pluck individual stems from several different types, and pull together a lush bouquet brimming with blue lilies, iris, and – yes -- a few dramatic yellow roses thrown in for good measure. It is a date, after all.

  I emerge from the fridge, holding up the arrangement. “What do you think?”

  He gives another shrug. “Sure. Whatever.”

  I try not to scowl. “I’ll just wrap it up, and you can be on your way.”


  “Is the gift-wrap extra?” he asks. “Because I was looking to keep it under ten bucks.”

  I blink. Ten bucks. From a florist in Manhattan? Where my shop’s rent is equivalent to the GDP of some minor country?

  My smile starts to grimace around the edges. “Then this won’t suit you, I’m afraid. Are you sure you can’t stretch your budget a little?”

  Fifteen would get him a few cheery peonies. Wrapped up nicely, with a big bow…

  “What about those?” he asks, pointing at a bucket of wilted carnations that I was just about to throw out.

  “Carnations?” I ask. They’re pretty enough, but I only ever use them as filler in more extravagant bouquets. Because, let’s face it, no woman is sitting around dreaming that their man will come home with a big bunch of carnations.

  If every flower has a meaning, then these definitely mean, ‘I made zero effort.’

  But this guy nods, determined. “They’ll do.”

  I slowly exhale. “Sure,” I say, because why not? “Let me at least wrap them up with a bow.”

  The man sighs and starts counting out singles, while I make the carnations look as decent as possible. Which, let’s face it, is a futile quest.

  “I hope your date enjoys them!” I lie, as he grabs the bouquet and exits.

  “…And I hope she dumps your ass before she finds out just how little effort you want to make in bed,” I add, sighing.

  “Who’s failing in the bedroom this time?”

  I turn. My assistant, Remy, has entered from the back alley, carrying the latest deliveries. Unlike the rest of my shop, which is packed with color and pretty touches, he’s the picture of glowering Goth moodiness, dressed all in black, with a couple of bolts through his ear for good measure. It’s a battle to keep him from turning the window display into a gruesome murder display, but believe it or not, the guy is a whizz with a tasteful funeral arrangement and knows how to keep my Bridezilla clients from losing their cool.

  “Just another unimaginative client,” I reply, tidying the counter. “He insisted on carnations, can you believe it? For a first date!”

  “Is he taking out my grandmother?” he quips, and I laugh.

  “For her sake, I hope not!”

  I turn to the appointment book… Which is painfully empty. I wince. Barely 10% of my business is walk-in customers, I make most of my income from doing the floral arrangements for big events. “What happened to that anniversary order for the DeSantos’?” I ask. “I thought they were renting out the ballroom at the Griffin Hotel?”

  “He’s saving his money for the divorce lawyer,” Remy replies. “Turns out, the Mrs. DeSantos didn’t so much discover the spiritual charms of Reiki class, as she discovered the charms of the hunky Reiki master.”

  “Ouch.” I say – for poor Mr. DeSantos, and our empty schedule. “Well, without that job, we’re pretty much running on empty. It’s not exactly wedding season out there.”

  We both look out the front window to where the sidewalks are coated in grey slush, and everyone is hurrying, head down, trying to escape the bitter February chill. With the Valentine’s Day rush behind us, spring can’t come soon enough.

  “Maybe we should do some edgy installations,” Remy suggests. “That new S&M club just opened around the corner—the Devil’s Advocate’s. We could offer to do some cross-promotion. Some Queen of Night tulips, and black Hollyhock would look amazing with their purple wallpaper.”

  I don’t ask how he knows the color of the sex club wallpaper, because the truth is, I’ll take any ideas right now. “Maybe,” I agree. “See if they’re interested. Although, I’m not sure what I could promote from there here at Bloom.”

  “You’d be surprised.” Remy smirks. “They have a line of glass dildos that would make super-cute vases.”

  I laugh. “I’m sure our snooty Fifth Avenue clients would just love that.”

  “You haven’t seen how big they are,” Remy responds, waggling his eyebrows, and I’m just giggling, picturing poor Mrs. Huxted-Bowles’s face, when the bell over the door sounds with a DING! and sex toys are the last thing on my mind.

  Sex, on the other hand…

  “You’re drooling,” Remy whispers beside me, and I snap back to reality. Because, hello. The man who’s just strolled through the door definitely deserves my full attention. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with rumpled brown hair and sexy two-day stubble. He’s wearing faded, worn jeans and a button-down not tight quite enough to scream gym rat, but plenty tight enough to show what’s underneath is the product of hard work.

  Hard. Sweaty. Work.

  Did I mention hard?

  Mr. Heartthrob drifts over to a display of potted herbs, looking around with the expression of a guy who’s way out of his depth.

  And I know just the girl to point him in the right direction.

  “Hey there,” I round the counter, approaching him. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  The guy flashes a heart-stopping smile. “Oh hi…” his eyes drop to my name tag. “April. Maybe you can. I need something for my aunt. She’s been, uh, under the weather.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Although I am not sorry to hear that he’s shopping for a family member and not, say, a fiancée. Before I even realize, my eyes dart to that finger—it’s bare. Even better news.

  “Are you looking for a plant or cut flowers?”

  He pauses. “Well, I’ve given that question a great deal of thought, you know, since you asked me just now. My response is I have no idea.”

  I grin. Hot and funny? Yes, please. “Well in that case, maybe we should start at the beginning. This is not a decision to be made lightly,” I say, mock-serious.

  He plays along, nodding solemnly. “Of course. I defer to your expertise on all things flora. And fauna,” he adds, looking around. “Although, I’m not exactly clear on what fauna is.”

  I smile wider. “Animals, so no, not exactly my thing.”

  “Good. Aunt Penelope already has a labradoodle called Moxie, and that thing does not play well with others.” Heartthrob grins at me, and I swear I melt, just a little.

  “Noted,” I say, trying not to sound breathless. “Now. How close are you with this aunt?”

  “Hmm.” Heartthrob ponders. “A kiss on the cheek at major holidays—other than that one Christmas she got tipsy and kissed me on the mouth.” He winces. “I’ve been called to change light bulbs on occasion, but I’m unlikely to be in the will. Oh, except for her taxidermied raccoon. But only because it freaked me out when I was a kid. She has one of those senses of humor.”

  “That’s oddly specific,” I say. “But OK. How old is she?”

  That makes him cringe. “Um…fifties? Like, early-to-mid? I’m guessing?”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell her you didn’t know. We have a cone of silence here at Bloom,” I add, flirty.

  At least, I’m trying to flirt. But I’m so rusty, I might be coming across as ‘deranged stalker’ right now. Who even knows?

  Luckily, Heartthrob is still smiling at me, and not, you know, running for the hills. “Your discretion is appreciated.”

  Focus, April. The bouquet!

  “I suppose there’s no point asking her favorite flowers?” I try.

  “Would I be throwing myself at your mercy if I knew?” he counters.

  “Good point.” I take a look around, my design wheels spinning. “Roses are too romancey for an aunt. Lilies are bright and cheerful—popular with the older crowd. But some pets are allergic, so unless you want revenge on poor Moxie…”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Good call. How about sunflowers?” I suggest. “They represent loyalty and longevity.”

  “All good things,” Heartthrob agrees.

  “Plus, I always think they’re the happiest flower,” I confide. “They’ll brighten anyone’s day.”

  “Then let’s do it,” he agrees. I pluck several stems from the bucket, and take them over to start assembli
ng a bouquet.

  Heartthrob trails after me. “So what else brightens your day, April?”

  I look at him over my shoulder. “What?”

  He flashes that irresistible smile again. “A woman can’t live on flowers alone. What else do you like? Hobbies? Interests?”

  I blink, surprised, just as Remy passes me by – and elbows me. “He’s flirting!” he whisper-shouts.

  “Oh.” I blush. Is this guy really hitting on me?

  I can but dream.

  “Well, umm, this place takes up most of my time,” I blurt. “I opened the store last year, so I’m still getting it off the ground. And then there are private events, and commissions, and…”

  Do I have anything in my life that doesn’t make me sound like a sad, lonely work-o-holic?

  Clearly not.

  “You still have to have a favorite music? Food?” he prods, that smile amping up even more.

  I melt some more. “Well, I like classical music, and some country—Dolly Parton is the queen, obviously. And Italian—food, not music. Though I have been known to rock it out to some Three Tenors.”

  Heartthrob chuckles.

  “Though,” I add slowly, “it’s been forever since I’ve had good Italian.”

  “Food?” the guy asks, mischievous.

  “That too,” I quip. And wait. Because if there was ever a moment that screamed, ‘ask me out’, this is it.

  But Heartthrob just gives me an even smile. “So, that bouquet?”

  “Oh right, of course,” I blurt, disappointed. “Here you go. It’s an excellent, ‘get well soon, even though I’m unlikely in the will, except for that taxidermied raccoon that I never wanted anyway’ bouquet.”

  He looks at the sunflowers and then grins at me. “Perfect.”