by Vivian Arend
When I get outside, the late spring sky is grey and threatening rain, so I drive my car instead of walking.
I drive past the Baker Brothers garage slowly, looking for any sign of Luca. The windows are still covered in paper, so I can’t see anything.
The garage’s sign looks great, thanks to the recent restoration. Luca had a guy who specializes in hand-painting signs come in and spruce up the letters. He also added a line about motorbikes, exactly as I suggested. I really hope it was good advice I gave him.
I open the flower store and keep myself busy, my heart skipping a beat every time someone comes in the door.
It’s nearly lunch time when a woman I don’t recognize comes in.
She pretends to be looking at the ferns and orchids, but I can feel her eyes on me. I ask her if I can help her, and she quickly scuttles back out again.
I pull out my phone and check it again. No message from Luca.
I send him a new text message: Have you been sending spies over here to the flower shop?
He responds immediately: No. Why?
I frown at the phone. I should be glad he replied, but this isn’t the sort of sweet, romantic message I was hoping for.
Me: Some blonde chick was just in here staring at me.
I wait five minutes for a response and don’t get one.
The door chimes again. I look up, expecting to see Luca, coming to surprise me with something thoughtful.
Instead, I get the blonde woman.
This time she walks right up to me and points the screen of her phone at my face.
“Did you make this?” she asks.
There’s a photo of flowers on the screen. I recognize the raffia tie from our regular supply. More importantly, I recognize the extravagant arrangement. It’s the one Luca dropped a bundle on the first time we met.
I look up into the blonde’s ice blue eyes. She’s older than me, maybe close to forty, but really pretty, like a Barbie doll.
I answer carefully. “If it came with one of our cards, then it was either me or my coworker.”
“I saw Luca in here two weeks ago, talking to the other girl. It was busy, and he was helping her sell flowers.”
I nod slowly, pretending to be thinking. On the Wednesday before last, Luca was here, helping my sister sell out the store so I had Thursday off. That was our first date.
I look down at the woman’s fingernails. They’re manicured, with those thick, gel nails. Judging by the energy coming off her, I quickly assess that she is Luca’s ex, and if she finds out he’s dating me, she’ll bury those nails in my face like ten daggers of payback.
“I’m sorry, who?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
She spits out his name like it’s toxic. “Luca Lowell.” She studies my face. “The other girl’s your sister, isn’t she?”
“The one who works here? Yes.” I snap my fingers. “Oh, you mean Luca. The guy who bought the garage. He’s been getting to know some of the people who work up and down the street. Um… for business networking, I guess.”
“You warn your sister,” she hisses.
I take a step back, out of face-stabbing range. The counter is between us, but it’s not enough.
“Warn her about what?”
“You tell her that Luca Lowell is nothing but trouble. He’s a tease and a liar.”
Her eyes widen as she stares down at something. I follow her gaze to my charm bracelet. I start to hide it behind my back, but she comes around the counter in a blur of motion and grabs my wrist.
“What’s this?” she asks. “Is that a motorbike charm? Is this from him?”
I yank my wrist free, and then shove her back.
“None of your business,” I growl. “Please leave.”
She staggers back, looking stunned, then comes at me, arms flying.
What this woman doesn’t know, is that I can handle a fight. Both my sister and I were on the girls’ wrestling team in high school. While our friends were trying out to be cheerleaders and running around in pleated skirts, Megan and I were learning how to pin down opponents.
The blonde doesn’t even know what hit her.
She’s down for the count.
The door chimes, and Luca comes rushing in to find me sitting on top of his ex-girlfriend, with her face pressed into the floor and her arm twisted up behind her back.
“This isn’t what it looks like!” I cry out.
He steps behind me, locks his hands under my armpits, and lifts me off the blonde.
“Really?” he says. “Because it looks to me like you’ve got my former real estate agent in a head lock.”
After he sets me down, he helps her to her feet.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” she says.
Gruffly, he says, “Leave now, and we’ll pretend you never did.”
She hangs her head and runs for the door.
He looks down at me, a look of admiration on his face. His blue eyes are burning bright.
“Tina, I never knew. You’re quite the little bruiser.”
“I’ve got some moves.” I frown over at the door, checking to make sure she’s really gone. “Who was that?”
“A woman I deeply angered. Real estate is a tough business. She worked for months trying to put together a deal on another garage, and she took it poorly when I bought a different one.”
“Oh. I thought maybe you slept with her and never called the next day.”
He reaches out and squeezes my bicep. “You’ve got some muscles there. Can you do a chin-up.”
“Of course I can.”
“Prove it.” He holds his arm straight out.
My heart is still pumping hard from the altercation. I feel like I could lift a car.
I grab hold of Luca’s upper arm. I bend my legs and lower myself so my arms are straight, then pull myself up with a grunt.
Now I’m hanging from his arm, my knees bent.
His arm wavers, but he holds it steady. His eyes dare me to let go. I flash my eyes at him, inviting him to set me down if he starts to get tired.
Through gritted teeth, he says, “In the interest of full disclosure, I didn’t call my former real estate agent the day after I slept with her.”
Through equally gritted teeth, I reply, “I knew it. She was way more pissed than someone who didn’t get a business deal.”
“I thought it would cheer her up about not getting the commission.”
I’m breathing heavily, but I won’t let go. “You really don’t know the first thing about women, do you?”
“My mother passed away when I was five. I was raised by my father and uncle. I only know two things about women, and that’s all I need to know.”
My muscles are burning, but I hang on. “What two things?”
“That I like women, and that you’re the cutest one I’ve ever met.”
“For a big, tough guy, you sure say the word cutest a lot.”
He groans and lowers me to the ground. “You win.” He shakes out his arm, then massages the red marks left by my fingers.
“What do I win?” I ask.
“My heart.”
He reaches into his pocket and hands me a tiny, heart-shaped charm.
He explains, “I didn’t want to scare you, so I took it off the bracelet before I gave it to you.”
“Cute!” It’s just cute enough that I’m not quite so upset about the news he slept with the crazy real estate agent. I accept the heart and hold it on my palm.
“Now you have my heart,” he says. “Promise you won’t break it.”
I attempt to pick the heart up with my fingers to examine it closer. My arms are shaking. My hands are numb from hanging off Luca’s arm like some wild-eyed sugar-crazed kid on the monkey bars. I fumble the heart and drop it on the ground.
Luca frowns at me. “That’s not a good sign.”
“Says the guy with a stalker.”
He crouches down and grabs the heart charm, then tucks it into his pocket again.
I
put my hands on my hips.
“Well? Why didn’t you text me back?” I ask.
“My spelling is atrocious,” he says. “If you would have phoned, I would have picked up and talked to you, though.”
I’m so surprised, I actually take two steps back. I am literally taken aback by this strange confession.
“You blow me off all day because you’re a bad speller?”
He looks sheepish. “Plus, I don’t do texting.”
“Just because you’re a bad speller? You can always use Autocorrect.”
He winces and looks even more uncomfortable. “Tina, I don’t do text messages, because I’m an adult. That’s kid stuff, with the little pictures and whatever.”
I stare at him in astonishment. “Excuse me for being into kid stuff.”
He rubs his forehead and looks over his shoulder toward the door.
“I should get back to the garage. Let me know if any of my other stalkers come by.”
“You know I will.”
And then he leaves.
I check the calendar to see if it’s a full moon. I’m not surprised to find it is. I have had some weird Mondays, but this one takes the cake.
I try to get back to work, but now I’m thinking about that skanky blonde. Yuck. I’m so grossed out that he slept with her. Even if it was just once, I’m not happy about it.
Now that I know the story behind the first apology arrangement, I wish I didn’t. I hope I never find out about the second one.
My sister comes in after lunch to take the second half of the day.
I tell her all about the excitement she missed.
When I’m done, she wrinkles her nose. “So, he doesn’t have a brother. That’s too bad.”
“Megan, focus. He bought two arrangements. Who do you think the second one was for?”
I told myself I didn’t want to know the story, but now it’s basically the only thing I can think about.
Her eyes get huge, and she says in a scary voice, “The second flowers were for the stalker who’s going to murder you. Mwah-hah-hah. Sleep with one eye open.”
I grab my purse and leave, rolling my eyes.
Outside on the sidewalk, the sunshine hits me, along with an idea. I don’t need to go home and sulk over Luca not calling me. If I want to earn that heart back, I could at least make a move.
I walk up Baker Street until I get to the garage. There’s still paper all over the windows, so I can’t see in. I try the door. It’s unlocked.
Inside, the reception area has changed so much, it’s unrecognizable. A couple of guys are working on assembling a counter, and a few more are painting.
Luca looks up from some blueprints and comes over to me, smiling.
He waves around, apologizing for the mess. “Nothing’s finished, but it’s coming together.”
I look at the rejuvenated space in awe. The old drop ceiling with water-stained acoustic tiles has been removed, and the exposed wood beams have been sandblasted clean. Everything that’s new is a shade of grey, with chrome accents and a few splashes of color. There’s a painter putting a glossy coat of red on the wooden window frames.
“Luca, this isn’t a garage.”
He nods toward the service bays, which are now visible from the reception, now that an entire wall has been removed and replaced with glass.
“Not yet, I know. We’re still waiting on some equipment.”
“Forget that. I’m moving in here. This isn’t a garage. It’s my dream home.”
He chuckles. “But you already have a garage you live in.”
We’re interrupted by the guys working on the counter needing to ask Luca about something.
“I’ll let you go.” I back away.
“Friday night. Come to my house and I’ll make you dinner. It’s my turn.”
“Sure. And on Saturday, I won’t phone you. It’s my turn.”
“You won’t have to phone or not phone me, because you’ll still be there.”
“Nice.” I try to give him a dirty look, but I can’t resist his grin.
I turn to leave.
He runs ahead of me to hold open the door.
He gives me a kiss, then says softly in my ear, “Just a warning. My house, my rules.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I pull my car onto Luca’s street at quarter to seven.
I’m wearing casual clothes—a relatively new stretchy top, and jeans. The charm bracelet Luca gave me is sparkling on my left wrist with its four charms.
Summer weather is here, and sunshine is still glinting off cars and windows along the street.
This is a family-oriented neighborhood, and half the front lawns are strewn with giant plastic toys. The scent of barbecue hangs in the air.
Luca’s house is neither the newest nor the oldest on the block. It’s built in an architectural style that was popular in the city during the seventies, with minimal decoration—just a box with a low-pitched roof.
A man in a hat is watering some shrubs in front of the house next door. He watches me as I park my car and then walk up to Luca’s front door.
“You must be Tina.” He drops the garden hose and reaches across the shrubs to shake my hand. “I’m Chris. I’m the local heirloom tomato supplier. If you need salsa, just let me know.”
Luca opens his door. “Chris! Let her get in the door before you start pushing your condiments, man.”
Chris laughs, then looks me evenly in the eyes. “Do you like chutney?”
“Not the kind with raisins,” I answer.
Luca walks over and drapes his arm across my shoulders. It’s a casual gesture, but the touch of his arm, combined with the sunshine and the friendly neighbor is almost too perfect.
Luca kisses me on the side of my forehead, and the two of them talk for a few minutes about the plans Chris has for a new greenhouse.
A woman who must be his wife opens the front door and jokingly tells him to let us have dinner already. I look up in time only to catch the sight of her waving hand as she disappears again.
The neighbor tells us to have a good dinner, and picks up the garden hose again.
Luca guides me into his house, then shuts the door.
I don’t even get one peek around inside before he starts kissing me, backing me up against the door.
He kisses his way down my neck, then he gets down on his knees, lifts up my shirt, and kisses my stomach. “There it is,” he murmurs.
He kisses my stomach for a bit, then works his way back up again, my shirt lifted. He cups my breasts through my bra, then kisses my upper chest.
I giggle and try to push him away, but I may as well try to move a giant boulder.
While he kisses my skin and rubs his freshly-shaved jaw on me, I open my eyes and look around.
“Luca, why do you have motorbikes parked in your house where a living room should be?”
He murmurs against my skin, “I’d put them in the guest bedroom, but it’s tricky getting them up and down the stairs.”
“But shouldn’t they be in a garage? Or outside?”
With a sigh, he gets to his feet again. He parks one meaty palm on the wall above my head and leans over me. His blue eyes are deep and serious.
“My house, my rules,” he growls.
I lean over to look past him at the bikes. There must be eight or nine that I can see from the entryway. I don’t see any regular furniture.
“Do you ride the bikes around inside the house?”
He guffaws. “Gotta ride somewhere when the weather’s bad outside.” He stares into my eyes, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “Of course I don’t ride them inside the house. I wouldn’t want the exhaust getting up to the living space.”
“Right. Because that would be crazy.”
“My house, my rules.”
He takes me by the hand and leads me up a central staircase.
The upper floor looks more like a regular house. Mainly because there are no motorbikes.
“This ho
use was originally a duplex,” he explains as he leads me over to the kitchen. “I did a full reno on the kitchen two years ago.” He slaps the poured concrete counter.
I look over the steel and concrete finishes. “And it was a manly renovation. One might say… a man-ovation.”
He raises one eyebrow. “I didn’t know we were already at the pun stage of the relationship. I suppose next you’ll be shaving your legs with my razor.”
“It is the fifth date. The fifth date is for puns and razor-sharing.”
“I’m glad someone knows the routine.”
I take a good look around the house. It’s very open, with few interior divisions. The walls are bare of pictures, and all the furniture is black and leather. It screams bachelor, which is good.
“Luca, your house is really nice. I don’t think I’ve ever dated anyone who lived alone in a house, much less owned one. You’re like an actual grown-up, aren’t you?”
“Tell me about the guys you usually date.” He gets back to dinner preparations. “And look away while I open this jar of pre-made spaghetti sauce from the grocery store.”
I take a seat on a tall chrome chair, and look away.
“My previous boyfriends were definitely a type. Nice guys, but I don’t know…” I trail off. Whatever did happen with those guys that made me end it with them?
Tina, do not start listing off the flaws of your ex-boyfriends. Luca is just being polite. Look at how cute he is, using one of those plastic circle things to measure the exact amount of spaghetti noodles. He’s really taking this dinner seriously. He doesn’t want to hear you whine about guys paying more attention to their video games than they did to you.
Luca looks up from the stove. “Keep going.”
I shrug. “I’ve dated some nice guys, but I guess I haven’t found what I’m looking for.”
“Keep your eyes open for someone in a red apron.” He picks up a red apron from the concrete counter and puts it on over his head, then ties it behind his back.
“Tell me about your friends,” he says.
I laugh. “Except for Rory, my friends are all getting married.”
“Is that something you want?”
I try to laugh off his question, but he keeps looking at me.
After a moment, he turns to adjust the height of the gas flame on the cooktop, then he pours us two glasses of wine.