by Vivian Ward
Take Mr. Lehman, for example. He and his wife have been married for almost 25 years. That man has been in here every year to order his wife daisies with baby’s breaths because those are her favorite. You’d never catch Mr. Lehman ordering her anything but those flowers because he knows his other half so well. I’ve met her a few times and she’d be insulted if he showed up with a bouquet of roses for her. She’d think he forgot what she liked.
There’s also Mr. Harding who comes here for his wife’s birthday, their anniversary, and other special holidays. This man impresses us each time he visits the shop. His wife has quite a green thumb and plants are her life, so he rarely orders her flowers. Instead, he purchases various types of plants that his wife doesn’t have. We’ve not figured out how he knows what she does or doesn’t have because we all know where they live, and their yard is very exotic to say the least. My point is, that man pays attention and knows his wife inside and out.
“Almost forty bucks for flowers?” he complains, removing his credit card from his wallet. “Man, I’m in the wrong business. Did you charge me for that card?” He points at the small rectangular card with a tiny, ‘I love you,’ scribbled on it above his signature.
“No, sir, those come free with every order,” I reply. I hate when Valentine’s Day approaches. The floral shop gets so busy and it brings all of the crazies out in full force. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t wear a tinfoil hat when I come to deal with some of these people.
I can’t wait until I finish my internship and I get my big break. I’ll finally be able to pursue my dream of being a journalist and report on some of the biggest stories. Hopefully, everyone will know my name sooner rather than later. Writing has always been my passion. I’d say it was my first love. Actually, it’s my only love because I’ve never really had a boyfriend.
I mean, sure, I’ve dated a few boys here and there but it’s never been anything serious. When my nose wasn’t buried in books, it was buried in my journal that I carried around and wrote in every day.
Oh, what I wouldn’t do to write for one of the biggest media conglomerates out there! There’s nothing better than a juicy story spilling secrets, exposing cover-ups, or being the first to deliver big news. I’d love to be the one who could crack a story wide open and draw major attention to those headlines.
Except there’s one problem: I hate being in the spotlight. I’ve never really felt comfortable in my own skin because I’ve always thought that I’m a bit on the awkward side. I’m not weird, or socially awkward or anything like that. I’ve always been able to make plenty of friends once I get used to people but when I’m around others, I feel pressure to act or look a certain way. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt that others look at me through a microscope and think that they can see all of my flaws and imperfections.
Of course, I know this isn’t true but I can’t help but feel that way. Maybe that’s why I’ve always written so much. I think I feel more comfortable writing rather than talking. All of my words are carefully edited before I share them, which prevents others from seeing my errors and mistakes.
I’d say that I’ve been practicing journalism since I was about nine-years-old. I still remember my first story. I’d heard rumors one of the third grade teachers, Mrs. H, who had been known to cuss and then later bribe the kids with Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pops as hush candy.
Naturally, I began interviewing students and asking them questions about Mrs. H’s temper, how she behaved and whether or not there were any truth to the rumors. Some kids firmly nodded, sure that she’d bribed them with the chocolate-centered suckers. Others shrugged their shoulders, unsure as to what went on in their classroom. I never understood those kids. Either she bribed you or she didn’t, what could be so confusing about that? In my professional third grade opinion, those kids were mostly the dumb boys who never paid attention to anything anyway.
Then one day, my teacher called in sick and we had Mrs. H because the principal decided to combine classes for the day. All day, I’d waited for the slip of the tongue or a foul-mouthed word to escape her lips and sure enough, it happened!
We were watching movies that day since there were far too many of us to handle in an ordinary classroom setting. A couple of boys started arguing, then they started shoving one another, and before the fight could be broken up, one of them threw a punch that knocked a little girl’s glasses off her face and onto the floor. Of course, I have a photographic memory so I was—and still am—able to recount every tiny detail, and then Mrs. H said, “Damn it, boys!”
A loud gasp immediately silenced the room as our two classes condemned her for cursing, especially since we were in a Catholic school. While she busied herself to get the next movie in and tried to regain order over the classroom, I pulled out my Lisa Frank notepad that was decorated in bright and colorful stickers to begin writing up my story.
All afternoon, I crafted my masterpiece, detailing the events of the day that had transpired and what led to the naughty slip of the tongue. Just as I began to edit my story, she pulled out two bags of the infamous Tootsie Pops that had been branded as bribe suckers.
When she got to me, I shook my head and declined her bribery. “Are you sure, Allison?” she asked me. I’ve always hated being called Allison; it sounds too formal, so I prefer Ally.
Nodding, I said, “I’m sure.” She eyed me suspiciously as she made her way around the classroom, but let it go.
At the end of the day, I’d finally completed my story. I was going to take my notebook to read it aloud to my teddy bears to get their expert opinion about it, but that’s not what happened.
The class bully snatched my Lisa Frank notebook out of my hands and began reciting it to a small group of kids. Mortified that he was reading my work, I tried to get it back from him but he dangled the notebook over my head as he towered over me. Frustrated and angry, I punched him right in his stupid gut.
Mrs. H saw the commotion and dragged both of us to the principal’s office. It was my first—and last—trip to his office, and I was terrified. At that age, I only knew of troublemakers being sent to his office and thought I’d be in so much trouble when I got home. I thought my parents would surely kill me if they knew I punched a kid and had been sent to see the principal.
Sitting up straight and only answering with, “Yes, sir,” or “No, sir,” I tried my best to ease my punishment, hoping he’d go easy on me as a first-time offender. My stomach was in knots and my hands were so sweaty as I sat in front of his desk. The bully—Tommy Mitchell—said that I’d started the whole thing and that I’d punched him for no reason.
The last thing I wanted to do was bring up my Lisa Frank notebook—it had very private information in it—but I had to if I was going to defend myself. By that evening, the principal, the teacher, and my parents had all read what I’d written. To my surprise, I didn’t get in any trouble and was let go with a slap on the wrist for punching Tommy Mitchell in the stomach. When I finally got to my room, my stuffed animals were very entertained by the story and thought I did a wonderful job, so I continued writing.
In high school, I helped work on the school newspaper and since then, writing has just become part of who I am. It’s like writing is ingrained in me, so I decided to major in it. But until I make it big—or at least finish my internship—I’m content working with beautiful flowers and hearing the usual gossip that comes along with working beside Kristin and her family.
After I finish waiting on my customer, I begin wiping down the counter when Kristin appears from the walk-in cooler.
“Only 10 more days until Valentine’s. Are you ready?” She asks, popping up the drinking sprout on her giant water bottle. Kristin always has a constant supply of ice water.
“Ugh, don’t remind me that it’s still ten days away. Were you able to get everything finished in the cooler or do you need some help?” I ask her, tossing my rag back into the bucket of bleach water.
“Nah, I’ve got it all finished. When my
brother gets back from his delivery, I’ll have him take out the trash and then it should be time to close up.”
Getting out of the flower shop on time will be a nice change. We’ve been so busy lately that we’ve been stuck working late into the evening, despite the ‘Closed’ sign hanging on the door.
Grabbing the broom, I begin sweeping the floor until a gust of cold wind comes whipping through the air, disrupting my pile of dirt and wilted leaves that I’d collected. Thinking it’s Kristin’s brother, James, coming back from a floral delivery, I open my mouth to protest but the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on steps inside the shop.
Shaking the bitter February frost off of him as he warms up inside the building, he looks like a dream come true. Tall, dark, handsome, and professional.
Stomping the snow off of his dress shoes, he catches me staring with my mouth gaping wide open. I immediately close it, embarrassed and can feel my face warming up despite the fact that the air around me is still cold from the door shutting.
“Hello,” he says.
His seductive, husky voice makes me want to melt. It’s so deep and sexy. “Hi,” I respond.
As he takes in my appearance, I suddenly feel exposed like he can read my every thought and quickly look away so that he won’t know every little detail I’m thinking. Taking off his designer gloves, he tucks them away inside of his black coat pockets.
“Can you help me?” he asks, smiling at me.
I swear he knows that I think he’s hot as hell and is talking to me just to get a rise out of me. Kristin clears her throat in an exaggerated manner which is when I realize that I need to answer him.
“Y-yes, of course. What can I help you with?”
“I’m hoping you can give me some advice. I need to order some centerpieces for the tables in my lounge on Valentine’s Day. What do you recommend?”
Advice. Centerpieces.
I nod because those are the only two words that I heard come out of his mouth. Resting the broom against the outside of the cooler, I walk behind the counter. “Sure, let me show you some of the options that we have.” Grabbing the tablet from under the countertop, I pull up the page with our centerpieces and hand it to him.
He seems a little annoyed that I just handed him a tablet when he could’ve easily looked it up on the internet, but I’m glad he came in. While Mr. Gorgeous is scrolling through our website, Kristin nudges my leg with hers and smiles at me. My eyes pop out of my head as I shake my head no and mouth the words, “Stop it,” to her.
“Okay, I’ve seen them,” he hands the tablet back to me. “Now, tell me what to order.”
His tone is friendly, but I can tell that he’s not joking. He’s all business and very serious. My guess is that he’s never ordered flowers before. Judging by his expensive shoes and Armani suit, I’d say that he probably has someone who does those things for him. It makes me wonder why she’s not doing it and he is. Maybe he’s a jerk and she quit? Or what if he fired her?
“It depends on the type of statement you’re trying to make,” I explain to him. “If you want something elegant and beautiful, I’d suggest one of our handmade arrangements. On the other hand, if you’d like something simple and cheap, we have some that come already thrown together.”
As soon as the words ‘simple and cheap’ and ‘already thrown together’ come out of my mouth, I immediately regret them. Nothing about this man looks simple or cheap, and it was a dumb thing to say. Of course, he wants something fancy and expensive. Kristin kicks me under the counter, reminding me how stupid I can be sometimes.
“No, I think I’d like to go with something handmade,” he says. “But I’m not sure what I need.” I shrug and the two of us begin to have a face-off as I wait for him to tell me what he needs and he waits for me to recommend what he needs. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he speaks again. “How about you meet me at my lounge and help me pick something suitable? I can show you the Valentine’s theme and we can go from there.”
Kristin gasped as soon as he asked me to meet him at his lounge, but my mind is still playing catch-up. Trying to keep my mouth from falling open, I smile and nod like a grinning idiot. I don’t know why but this man has an effect on me that nobody else has ever had.
The front door flies open, letting in another unsettling breeze of the brisk February air. James walks in, eying his sister and me suspiciously. Neither one of us can stop gawking at Mr. Gorgeous.
“Sure, I, um, I can do that. When would you like me to meet you there?”
James’s head snaps around as he begins listening to the conversation. He’s always been very protective of both of us—his sister and me. I used to think it was because I was her best friend, but then he tried asking me out. It was awkward to say the least and I felt awful for turning him down but I’ve always viewed him as my very own big brother. Rolling my eyes at him, I turn my attention back to Mr. Gorgeous.
“Monday would work well. Can you meet me first thing in the morning before the staff begins to show up?” he asks.
“Yes, I can do that. Is 8AM okay?”
“Sounds great,” a confident smile spreads across his face as he pushes his hand out to shake mine. “What’s your name?”
I attempt to give him a firm handshake because that’s what a business man like him probably expects but the minute my fingertips touch his skin, I feel a tingling sensation that extends to the pit of my stomach where it begins to stir all of my butterflies. Returning a fast, limp handshake, I withdraw my hand and say, “Ally.”
“Ally? That’s an interesting name. I’ll see you at eight.”
“Okay,” I say with a stupid, cheesy grin plastered on my face. I don’t know why I feel so embarrassed around him, but I do. Maybe it’s because he’s so perfect. Every hair on his head is neatly styled, his fingernails are perfectly trimmed, and his suit still looks completely crisp despite the fact that it’s the end of the day.
He’s almost out the door when I realize that I don’t know where I’m going or what his name is. Rushing over to him, I call out, “Wait!”
Stopping dead in his tracks, he cranes his neck to look at me. “Yes, Ally?”
“Where should I meet you, and what’s your name?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Sorry. We’ll meet at the Kaswell Cocktail Lounge, and my name is Colton. Colton Kaswell.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Kaswell,” I manage to say, my voice cracking. “I’ll see you then.”
With a quick nod, he turns and pulls his coat shut as he braves the blistering wind.
“Oh. My. God!” Kristin says with a squeal as she runs around the counter. The two of us watch Colton climb into the cab of his SUV before the sound of his engine fills the silence between us. “Ally! I was nudging your leg because of who he was and how he was looking at you!”
“Who is he?” I ask, grabbing my broom again. “And he wasn’t looking at me.”
“Seriously? You don’t know who Colton Kaswell is? What? Do you live in a cave?”
“I guess so,” I shrug, sweeping the dirt back into a pile again. “Are you going to tell me who he is?”
She steps her foot in the path of my broom, stopping me mid-sweep, forcing me to look at her. “He, my friend, is the owner of Kaswell Properties AND a prominent sex club that nobody is to ever speak about!”
“A sex club? What sex club?” I laugh.
“Ally! Listen to me! This could jump start your journalism career!”
“What are you talking about?” I have no idea what she’s getting at but whatever it is, she’s certain of it.
“I heard that he owns a secret sex club. Nobody’s supposed to know about it. It’s one of those things that everyone’s hush-hush about? But I bet if you could get in with him, you could get the scoop on that place, write up a story on it, and blow the lid wide open. It’d be huge!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I say. “How would I get the scoop on it? He doesn’t know me from the man on
the moon, but you’re right. If I could do it, I’d have jobs lined up and waiting for me as soon as I finish my internship which mostly consists of getting everyone coffee and writing dumb ass articles that are meaningless.”
“Or sooner!” she nods, insistent. “I’m telling you, he was looking at you, Ally. Like you were a piece of meat! I bet if you do a little flirting with him, he’d let you inside his world. Then, you could do the story and bam! Ally’s name is all over the headlines.”
I laugh at her as she refers to me in third person. “I don’t know, Kristin. Someone with his power and money, and that kind of business? They don’t let just anyone in their circle.”
“But, you see, that’s where you’re wrong. How many people like him—or bigger—have had their secrets exposed? Eventually, they all let someone in, and that someone could be you, Ally Hart. If you want to be known for your writing and get your name out there, this would do it.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “From the ten minutes I spent talking to him, he seems intelligent. I doubt I could get him to crack.”
“Ally? The man couldn’t order centerpieces. If you turn on that Hart charm, you’ll have him eating out of your hands in no time.”
“I don’t like the sounds of this,” her brother pipes in. “Women shouldn’t use their ‘goods’ to get what they want,” he uses air quotes to get his point across.
“Shut up, James,” Kristin says. “She’s not using her ‘goods’,” she returns the air quote gesture. “It’s no different from any other journalist who’s trying to get to the bottom of a story. They use their talents, whatever they may be, to get the job done. That’s all she’s doing, using her charm.”
“Uh-huh,” he nods, turning his hat backwards. “Like I believe that.”
“Here,” Kristin hands him a floral arrangement. “Take this to Mrs. Harris over on Madison Avenue and then go home. This is the last delivery of the night.” She turns back to closing out the register. “And stay out of other people’s business,” she warns her brother.