The Valentine's Day Resolution

by Ava Hayden

  Bishop’s gaze met his in the rearview mirror. “I’m afraid I have class. I’ve got an hour at one o’clock, if that helps.” His tone was polite, but his expression begged Huxley not to accept the offer.

  “Never mind.” Huxley wasn’t being fair. Bishop was paid to fetch Huxley and take him home. He had his days free, which allowed him to attend university.

  Bishop pulled into the drop-off zone at Huxley’s office. “I’ll take the donuts,” said Huxley.

  Bishop wrinkled his forehead. “I’m supposed to take up parcels for you, sir.”

  “I can manage two boxes of donuts.” Snapping at people was rude. Huxley flushed. “It’s fine. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  “You’re sure, sir?”

  Huxley climbed out of the SUV, wrestled the front passenger door open, and grabbed the two pink boxes.

  “Sir?”

  “Quite.” Huxley bumped the door shut with his backside and strode into the building, messenger bag dangling from one shoulder. A couple of minutes in line in the coffee shop, and then he headed for the elevator, envisioning donuts raining down the stairwell when he juggled boxes and latte to open the heavy door and sent them flying. Somehow he knew that would happen.

  SHERRILYN, THE receptionist, hurried across the foyer when Huxley appeared at the double glass doors that led into the company’s office suite.

  “Oh, Mr. Herrington, let me help you.” She pulled the right door open, standing just behind it, nearly touching one of the low rose-marble pedestals that sat on either side of the doors. They were topped by glazed celadon vases with some sort of floral thing that involved bare sticks and dried blossoms. Or maybe silk flowers? Something cheaper than live arrangements, that was for sure. He loathed them.

  “Thank you.” Huxley marched into the boardroom and stopped, shocked to see every seat taken but his own. Of course. Not going through the Tim Hortons drive-through had delayed him.

  He dropped the boxes on the table. “Good morning.”

  A chorus of “good mornings” drowned out the thud of his messenger bag hitting the floor. Huxley shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the back of his chair. On meeting days, he usually stopped by his office, hung up his coat, organized his desk, checked himself in the mirror, and only then joined the team. He must look as frazzled as he felt, going by the wary expressions on people’s faces.

  Bob scowled at the boxes. “Those aren’t Tim Hortons.”

  “No, they aren’t,” said Huxley. “I decided to try something different.”

  Meredith, head of Research and Development, leaned forward. “Is there anything gluten free?”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with Tim Hortons,” said Bob, glaring.

  “The red velvet donuts are gluten free,” said Huxley. Bob was undoubtedly going to run to his father right after the meeting and complain about the donuts.

  Tara, tasked with taking notes and producing meeting agendas, pulled one of the boxes near and read the list. “Oh my God, these look awesome. Nutella, Mocha Pistachio Crunch, Mexican Vanilla Cinnamon, Up-All-Day Coffee Crème.”

  “Me,” someone called out as Tara kept reading.

  “Salted Dark Chocolate over here,” said Rainey, the head of Knowledge Management.

  “Wait, did you say Vodka Collins? What does a Vodka Collins donut taste like?”

  “Saskatoon berry jam-filled—oooooh, yum.”

  “Dibs on the Chocolate Chili Cheesecake.”

  A fight broke out over the Pisco Sour donuts.

  “If I can get your attention!” Bob shouted over the chaos, his face as purple as the Saskatoon berry jam.

  Huxley frowned and faked a cough to hide a smile. “Don’t you want a donut, Bob?”

  Someone couldn’t quite suppress a snort.

  “There’s a Maple Maple, Mr. Tunney,” said Tara. “Oh, that’s so cute.” She peered at the box. “They put ‘maple’ with a little ‘two’ like ‘maple squared’ in parentheses. That’s adorable.”

  “No. Thank. You,” said Bob, glaring at Huxley. “I prefer Tim Hortons maple glazed.”

  “I’ll have the Chocolate Guinness, please.” Huxley accepted a napkin-nestled oversized chocolaty cake donut with a fragrant caramel-brown glaze. He paused before taking a bite. “Why don’t we have any gluten-free, sugar-free cookies in our lineup?”

  Every face around the long oval table stared at him as if he’d been replaced by a pod person.

  Amelie, director of Marketing, opened her mouth to speak, and Bob cut in. “Gluten free is a fad.”

  “Not if you have celiac disease,” said Meredith. “Not if you’re gluten sensitive.” Her lips pulled down at the corners, and her gaze was flinty.

  Bob managed a small smile. Huxley could almost hear the muscles creaking to pull his lips wider. “Of course, Meredith. I only meant that a lot of people are eating gluten free because they’ve heard about it and think it’s somehow healthier. It’s oat bran and chia and flaxseed all over again. We jumped on those bandwagons and paid for it.”

  “Those were very different cases,” said Gilles, a product manager. “We added oat bran to existing products. Same for chia and flaxseed. Most people buying them were already buying our products—at least that’s what my predecessor surmised. Offering gluten-free versions of our products means we’re broadening our customer base. We’re selling to people who wouldn’t have bought the original version of the product.”

  Gilles must have wanted to get that off his chest for a while.

  “That’s my point,” said Bob. “Most of those people don’t have a health issue, and they’ll stop buying gluten-free products when the fad is over. Anyway, we’ve fought this battle already. We have a gluten-free line.”

  Amelie cleared her throat. “Without more research, we can’t really know what motivates the customers purchasing our gluten-free products. I’ve advocated in the past for focus groups or surveys. I think Huxley’s question speaks to the fact that we don’t have many products for our customers who have to be on both a gluten-free and a low-sugar diet.”

  Gilles spoke up. “And our competitors do. And our biggest competitor now has a line of vegan products.”

  “There are plenty of choices for vegans,” said Bob. “We aren’t trying to compete with health-food brands.”

  Huxley frowned. “Why not?”

  Bob was turning red again. “Because our market is primarily diabetics and people on a reduced-sugar diet.”

  Huxley knew he was poking an already enraged bear. “Diabetics can be vegans and have celiac disease. And people don’t have to be diabetic to want to cut back on sugar.”

  Bob straightened the stack of paper before him. “We have a full agenda today. If there are issues people would like to discuss further, we need to add them to a forthcoming agenda. We’ve had these discussions in the past.” He meant before Huxley’s time. “But we can certainly go over them again.”

  With that he led them into the first agenda item. Huxley glanced through the agenda. Stultifying as usual. He sank into his seat and prepared to endure. Bob wrapped up the meeting forty-five minutes later. In theory Huxley ran the meeting; in practice Bob did.

  Huxley looked up from the agenda he’d filled with doodles to find Meredith, Amelie, and Gilles looking his direction. He glanced behind him. No, no one was there. They were staring at him. Maybe they were in shock that he’d shown signs of life in a meeting. Were they expecting him to do something more?

  When he didn’t move, they stood and filed out of the room. Huxley fell in behind them.

  “Oh, Mr. Herrington.” Huxley turned back. Tara was packing up the leftover donuts to take to the staff breakroom. “These donuts were amazing.”

  He imagined his father’s voice. What did you accomplish today, Huxley?

  I bought amazing donuts.

  HUXLEY RETREATED to his office.

  Before he could lose his nerve, he booked a time call with the dispatcher at Oilton Cabs, a local company with
which he had an account. His profile specified they send only a minivan or SUV-sized vehicle.

  He stared at the heap of paperwork on his desk left over from the meeting. They shouldn’t be using so much paper. Everything was available in digital format. All managers had company-supplied tablets. The boardroom had a projector. Why were they still printing out documents?

  Why do I care?

  Knock, knock.

  Before Huxley could speak, Bob stepped in and closed the door behind him.

  “Yes, come in, Bob.”

  Bob had opened his mouth to speak but stopped at Huxley’s words. He took another breath. “You feeling okay?”

  “Feeling great. How are you?”

  Bob gave him a considering look. “Look, why don’t we have lunch. Talk about the new year.” He still hadn’t cracked a smile—a record. “Clear the air.”

  “I have plans for lunch, and I’m pretty booked up this afternoon.”

  Bob stared.

  The last time Huxley spent his lunch hour somewhere besides his desk was… he couldn’t remember. He wasn’t actually working through lunch. Not unless you counted making one’s way through Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey and Maturin series. And Charles Todd’s Inspector Rutledge mysteries. And Jordan Castillo Price’s PsyCop books. E-books were awesome. Lifesavers. On an iPad, nobody knew you were a fanboy.

  Bob gave one slow nod. “Right.”

  “Maybe later this week.” Huxley raised his eyebrows and stared until Bob nodded again.

  “Fine.” Bob furrowed his brows, and then he left, not slamming the door so hard it rattled in its frame—another first.

  Be careful.

  Chapter 2

  PAUL PICKED up the business line after three rings. Sue must be tied up with a customer.

  “Floribunda. How may I help you?”

  “Dahlink, you’re not answering your cell.”

  Paul suppressed a groan, set the phone on speaker, and returned to trimming the roses destined for an anniversary bouquet. “Yeah, there’s a reason for that. I’m busy.”

  “Oh, honey, you work too hard.” Carson—a.k.a. Miss Gordine—huffed.

  “I don’t exactly have a choice if I want to keep this place going.”

  Carson dropped his voice an octave. “What’s the latest?”

  Paul slid roses into the vase, alternating reds and pinks.

  “Nothing new. Leo hasn’t left the country, but that’s all anyone can tell me. Let’s face it. The RCMP has plenty of hard-core criminals to catch. A small-time embezzler is pretty low on their to-do list.” The Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer who responded had been sympathetic but not encouraging, given that Leo had committed similar crimes in other provinces and vanished every time, leaving no clues.

  He tucked ivory spray roses into the arrangement.

  “Oh, sugar.” Carson hesitated. “Did you tell your parents?”

  Paul snipped a length of ribbon, lips tight. Tell them their only son had dealt a terrible blow to the business they’d worked so hard to build? Even worse, admit how? “No. They’re in Arizona. There didn’t seem to be much point.”

  His parents were snowbird retirees, and he wasn’t going to tell them anything that would spoil their winter down south. His dad had asked him about the business in their last call. Paul told him everything was fine and changed the subject. Valentine’s Day was coming soon—one of their biggest days of the year. He wouldn’t turn down any orders. He’d go without sleep if necessary. The store had to make as much money as possible.

  “Tell me you’re stopping for lunch,” said Carson.

  “I’ll grab something.” Paul had taken on extra orders, and since he couldn’t afford to give their part-time assistant, Leslie, more hours, he would be doing the majority of them.

  “That means no.” Carson huffed again. “I’m coming over with lunch.”

  Paul slid the completed bouquet into the staging cooler and moved to the unit beside it to pull supplies for the next order.

  “Paul? Are you there?”

  He leaned his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes. A break would be a good idea since he’d be working late.

  “Paul?”

  “I’m here. Lunch would be great. I can pay you back.”

  “No need. I cooked.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Paul smiled, imagining the look on Carson’s face.

  “Honey, when I make a threat, no one on this pokey little planet has the least doubt. And if you want to throw shade at me, you’re going to have to try harder. That was pathetic.”

  Paul laughed, the first time that day.

  “Tchuss, dahlink.”

  Paul switched off the phone and rubbed his face. He needed more coffee.

  A FEW minutes after noon, Huxley stepped out of the SUV emblazoned with the green-and-white Oilton Cabs logo.

  What am I doing here?

  He walked to Floribunda, slow as a funeral march, and contemplated the door.

  Enough. Huxley wiped his boots on the sturdy mat, turned the old-fashioned brass knob, and pushed into the store. A ripple of chimes announced his arrival. On the wall to his left was a framed write-on board with colorful curlicue letters: Ask us about our Valentine’s Day specials.

  Is the universe stalking me?

  A smiling woman appeared from somewhere in the back of the shop, wiping her hands on a long, white apron. “Can I help you?”

  Huxley hadn’t realized how much he’d been counting on seeing the man until he didn’t. “I need to order flowers.”

  “Of course. What kind of occasion?”

  “Um….” He was sweating and unbuttoned his coat.

  A man emerged from a room with an open door labeled Staff Only. “Sue, I’ve got this. You’re going out for lunch.”

  Huxley couldn’t have told anyone the hair color or build of the man standing in front of the shop the previous day, but the gaze of the person approaching he could have identified anywhere.

  “How can I help you?” The man faced Huxley across a long counter and smiled.

  “Um.” Huxley faltered. “Do you—can you—” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to send a bouquet. My sister’s birthday is coming up. I don’t want to forget.” Nearly four weeks early wasn’t too strange—was it?

  The man laughed. “I understand. What did you have in mind?”

  “I have no idea. She’ll be—” He had to think. “Twenty-seven.” His face heated.

  The man bent and grabbed a binder from underneath the counter. “This is old-school, but it’s faster. We’ve also got a lot online if you want to go to our website.” He flopped the binder open between them and flipped to a page. “Here are some examples of birthday bouquets we’ve done.”

  Huxley glanced at the page, but he returned his gaze to the man. He had dark blond hair swept back and over, the sides short. He wore olive-green slim-fit jeans topped with a charcoal cable-knit crewneck sweater, sleeves pushed to above his forearms. He would look at home on the deck of a yacht or in the boardroom of a start-up technology company.

  Huxley couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the man’s ring finger. Bare. When he looked up, the man watched him, one eyebrow quirked.

  Huxley dropped his gaze and examined the arrangements. “Nothing with rainbows or puppies or unicorns. She’s not really the cutesy type.”

  “Okay.” The man flipped a couple of pages. “These are more edgy. This one is fairly simple, with ranunculus, scabiosa, and dahlias, all in deep red tones. The vase is custom-made for us by local glassblowers. It’s a nice keepsake.”

  Huxley leaned in for a closer look. “I think she’d like that.” He scanned farther down the page. “This one is nice too.”

  “That has protea, roses, olive branches, Japanese sweet pea, fringe tulip, seed eucalyptus, lisianthus, and amaryllis tarantula. It’s our most expensive arrangement of that size.”

  Huxley laughed. “Yeah, expensive and elaborate. That’s my sister all right.”
He looked up to find the man’s face nearer than he’d expected, and his gaze fell to the man’s lips. He blushed and jerked back.

  “Yes, I—yes, she’ll like that. I’ll take it. Can I—? What do I—? I guess you need her information.” Stop the verbal diarrhea already.

  The man smiled and looked at Huxley as if he could read his mind. He probably could. His eyes were kind. “Once in a great while, we have to make a substitution. Is that a problem? Are there any plants your sister is allergic to?”

  “Not that I know of.” Huxley found himself staring at the man’s lips again and jerked his gaze away. If he simply ordered one bouquet and left, he’d have no reason to return. “Do you do—office arrangements? I don’t know what to call them. The kinds of things you see in reception areas.”

  The man smiled as he flipped to a different page in the binder. “There are examples here, and we’ve got a gallery online as well. Do you have an idea of what you would want?”

  Huxley scanned the page in front of him. “I’m not sure. I need to—” …figure out how to set up a standing order for flowers without Bob Tunney running to my father. “I’ll need to do some checking. Do you have a business card?”

  “Sure.” The man plucked a card from somewhere under the counter and handed it over.

  Huxley examined the card. On the front an illustration of lush roses in shades of coral, apricot, and peach, and in elegant script, the store’s name: Floribunda. He flipped the card. Paul Vandenberg, and underneath, Proprietor, followed by the shop’s contact information.

  His name is Paul. He slipped the card in his front pocket. “Thanks.”

  Paul pulled a keyboard near. “Can I get some details?”

  Huxley gave Alexandra’s name and address to Paul and accepted a small notecard and envelope.

  “We have plenty of different cards, if you want something fancier. That’s the standard one included with any gift arrangement.”

  “This is fine. Can you deliver it tomorrow?” Huxley was too embarrassed to schedule the delivery closer to the actual date. Paul might think he was strange for ordering flowers four weeks early. I can’t give any hint that the flowers were just an excuse to come here.