The Romeo Effect

by Monroe, Lila

  “Yes, I’m serious,” I sigh as I bend down and pick up one of the heavy buckets with a grunt. “And I bet you thought being a florist was all sunshine and . . . well it is roses, but you know what I mean.”

  His gives me a lopsided grin, which does something to my insides. Something I don’t have time to think about. “Clearly, I underestimated you.”

  “Most people do,” I tell him. “Now, to work!”

  Somehow, despite the odds, we manage to get every last rose sprayed. By the time we’re done, I can no longer feel my index fingers from holding the spray nozzles, and I want to cry from exhaustion, but all of the blush pink roses are now varying shades of blue: powder blue, sky blue, indigo, and midnight. They actually look really good.

  I glance at Seth, smiling at the blue smudges on his hands and face. “You look like you just auditioned for Blue Man Group—and failed.”

  He grins. “And you just got rejected from the Smurfs,” he replies, teasing.

  I look up at the clock on the wall. “Damn, we’re going to be late.”

  “I’ll get you there,” Seth says, confident.

  I wipe my hands on a paper towel. “You’ve got a helicopter?”

  “No, but I’m a great driver.”

  I turn to Remy, who saved the day when he ran around all over lower Manhattan, buying up every can of blue floral paint (and even some blue hairspray left over from Halloween, just in case we needed more). “Are you OK to hold down the fort while I drive these out?”

  He nods. “Sure thing.”

  “Let’s load the van so I can get out of here.”

  Seth helps us load the flowers into my shop van. It’s a tight fit, but we manage to get the back doors closed. I keep looking at my watch, worried. If I run into any traffic, I’m screwed. “Anyway, thanks for your help,” I say to Seth as I grab the driver’s door handle.

  “I meant it,” he says, holding out his hand for the keys. “I’m a good driver. I can get you there. You won’t be late.”

  I am about to argue, but then realize I don’t have the time. “Fine, hotshot,” I say, dropping the keys into his palm. I’m doubtful, but desperate.

  “Have faith,” he says.

  I’m barely buckled in when Seth peels out of the parking space. I always take several minutes to back out because I can’t afford to replace my sideview mirrors (again), but he races like he’s Vin Diesel out to save the world.

  “Look out!” I shriek. “The mirrors!”

  “Are fine,” he assures me, maddeningly calm. He gets on the road and hits the gas. Hard.

  I grip the handle on the door, my eyes glued to the road in front of us. “Too fast!”

  He grins over at me. “Calm down, do you want to get there?”

  “In one piece!”

  “Settle down, Grandma,” he scolds.

  “Do you even have a licence?”

  He glances at me. “For what?”

  “To drive!”

  “License, shmicense,” he says, taking a hand off the wheel to wave me off.

  When I gurgle, he looks over and laughs. “Of course I have a license, April.”

  I exhale in relief, though I keep my hand on the handle, still terrified as he zips this way and that—one time even going down an alley the wrong way.

  “It’s the first thing they give you when you work for the CIA.”

  I shoot him a glare. He laughs again.

  “Kidding! It’s actually the second thing.”

  “Jerk!” I say, but can’t help from smiling. Also, I realize after a few blocks that while he’s a fast driver, he’s also really controlled. Like, he really knows what he’s doing. “Did you drive professionally?” I ask.

  He glances over at me and then back at the road. “No, I mean, I used to work on a golf course and booted around on carts a lot of the time. Otherwise, just an avid gamer. Grand Theft Auto.”

  “Well, you’re a good . . . I mean, I guess I might not die.”

  He barks a laugh. “Why, April! That almost sounds like a compliment.”

  “Hmph,” I say, grinning. “It’s meant as one. Although . . .” I gasp as he nearly sideswipes a cab. “Maybe I should wait until we arrive!”

  We do. And in record time. It’s still cutting it closer than I like, and I feel flustered and out of sorts as I dash up to the brownstone door and ring the doorbell.

  It’s then that I realize I forgot to check my face for blue paint.

  The door opens, and a very pregnant woman steps out. “Bloom?” she asks, hopeful.

  “That’s us,” I say, my heart still pounding. “Right on time.”

  “Come on in,” she says, “We’re just getting set up.”

  Seth and I grab some flowers, and follow her inside . . . to what is the fanciest party I’ve ever seen. Balloons, catering staff, and a buffet table to die for.

  “This kid isn’t even born yet, and he’s getting all this?” Seth whispers.

  I elbow him, but I agree. “Shall we set up in here?” I ask the client, taking out the first roses.

  She gasps.

  “Is . . . everything OK?” I venture.

  “Oh, no . . . the flowers . . . they’re just . . .” And then she dissolves into tears. Big, fat, sloppy tears.

  OMG! I think, my stomach lurching. The flowers are wrong! The client is going to tell me it’s a girl after all and where are her blush-pink roses?!

  I’m gearing up for a very serious meltdown. Very. Serious.

  “Are you OK?” Seth asks gently.

  She nods, wiping her tears. “Oh, yeah, of course. Pregnancy hormones,” she says, starting to smile. A smile! We’re saved! “What I was trying to say is that they’re perfect. I love how they’re all different shades of blue. You’ve completely exceeded my expectations!”

  “Lindsey!” a male voice calls out. “Can you come in here and check on the tablecloths?”

  “My husband.” She rolls her eyes. “Jesus, you’d think growing a whole human is enough but now I have to make decisions about tablecloths?” She laughs, kind of hysterically, before she ambles out of the room.

  I gasp for air, my heart racing. “Oh my God!” I exclaim. “I thought we were screwed for sure!”

  “Me too!” Seth gapes. “When she started crying . . .”

  “I know!” I grab his arm. “You think she could have started with the whole ‘they’re perfect’ part. I was just about ready to pass out!”

  “Maybe that’s all the paint fumes you’ve been huffing,” Seth teases.

  “Don’t!” I laugh. “My hands are going to be stained blue for a week.” I gulp another breath, overcome with relief . . . and gratitude. “Thank you,” I tell him, throwing my arms around his neck. “Seriously, I couldn’t have made it without you.”

  “I was happy to help.” Seth draws back and grins at me, and maybe it’s the adrenaline still pumping, or those pesky paint fumes, but suddenly, I realize that I’ve got my arms around him . . . His lips, only inches away . . .

  And then, to my utter surprise, we’re kissing.

  Like, really kissing.

  I can’t tell who made the first move, but does it matter now? His mouth is hot and sweet on mine, his hands sliding around my waist, and his torso deliciously taut against me. I kiss him harder, our lips parting, his tongue sliding deep—

  “AHEM,” someone shout-coughs behind us. It’s the caterers with armloads of supplies.

  “Coming through!”

  Seth and I leap apart like we’ve been burned. “Umm,” I stutter, flushing bright red. “I, uh, um . . .”

  What the hell just happened?

  “I should go,” Seth blurts, looking as freaked out as I feel. “So. Um. Stay cool!”

  “Stay cool!” I echo, staring after him as he hightails it out of there.

  “Lady?” the caterer says. “When you’re done mooning over there, can you hurry up and move your van before the ice cream cake melts?”

  8

  Seth

&
nbsp; Stay cool?

  I roll over and groan into the pillows. Way to sound like an idiot—as if kissing her didn’t help with that part already.

  I can’t believe I just did that.

  Clients are off limits, and annoyingly romantic, starry-eyed ones even more so. I was supposed to be talking April into dating James, not sticking my tongue down her throat! But somehow, she was hugging me tightly, her lush curves pressed up against my body, her cheeks flushed with excitement . . .

  I couldn’t help myself. I had to taste that sweet mouth.

  And now that I know what it’s like, I couldn’t forget it if I tried.

  Which I am doing. Hard.

  Wait, that’s probably the wrong word here. But either way, that kiss can’t happen again.

  She’s not for me. I am determined not to take that kind of risk again . . . especially with James breathing down my neck, demanding another chance.

  Should I call again? Maybe my messages got accidentally deleted?

  I look down at his latest message. Fuck. No matter how much I don’t want to admit defeat, I can’t string James along. I need to tell him to cut his losses. Get out there and meet someone else. Hell, this is New York City. That sea is full of fish.

  I know that. I’ve done a lot of swimming of my own.

  So why can’t I get a certain florist out of my head, either?

  When I emerge from my room, my roommate—Bex, coder and tech-nerd extraordinaire—is on the couch with Lars, one of her boyfriends. She’s not a cheater—she’s polyandrous, a term she taught me when she moved in and let me know to expect her to have a very active dating life.

  She was not kidding, as I learned quickly.

  “Hey, Seth,” Lars says. Bex looks up and gives me a smile.

  I drop onto the club chair facing them. “What’s on the menu?” I ask. They’re drawing up their menu for tonight, their weekly potluck that she affectionately calls her Ménage Melange.

  “Cheese fondue,” Bex says.

  I grin. “The seventies called. They want their food back.” I glance at Lars. “And you need to grow a porn ’stache for maximum authenticity.”

  Bex grins. “Fondue is sensual.” I wince. “And anyway, it’s cheese. Who doesn’t like cheese?”

  She has a point.

  She turns back to Lars. “So, if you get the veg, and Billy gets the bread, I can take care of the cheese and other stuff that goes into the fondue. Oh, and get some strawberries for the dessert fondue, too.”

  A few minutes later, Lars leaves with his list and the promise that he’ll call Billy to delegate his portion of the menu.

  Once the door’s closed, I turn toward my roommate, amused.

  “What?” she says, looking at me askance.

  “It’s just . . . weird. You have them doing chores together.”

  “It’s not weird.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s evolved. And it’s better than what you do; banging someone new every week.”

  “Not quite.” Not even close, actually. At least not recently.

  “Anyway,” she says. “I don’t want to commit to one person. If they’re cool with it, which they are, why not?”

  I can’t argue with her logic, at least on paper. But I couldn’t imagine sharing the woman I’m dating with someone else. Nor would I want to split my affections—when I’m in a relationship I want both of us to be all in. In theory, at least—I have yet to find someone I want to go all in with. Yet.

  “You’re just a romantic sap,” she teases.

  I snort. “Says the woman who watches The Little Mermaid monthly. I’m the romantic sap?”

  She sticks her tongue out. “It’s good music. And Ariel’s hot. Maybe my next boyfriend will be a girlfriend.”

  “Well, before you start swiping right on any mermaids, I need some help with intel.”

  She grins and grabs her laptop. “My fingers are at the ready, Romeo. What do you need?”

  “My new client, Carol, knew this guy Fred Wilkins when they were kids. They lived across the street from each other. She moved away—”

  “Yadda, yadda, yadda . . .” She taps at her keyboard. “She wants to reunite and see if there’s anything there. Can’t she just hook up with him online like everyone else?”

  I snort. “If she and everyone else actually did that, I’d be out of a job.”

  “Point taken,” she says, glancing up from her laptop.

  “See if he has any of the regular profiles—Facebook, Insta, Twitter.”

  “Tinder? Grindr?” she asks.

  I sigh. “I guess you’d better check the dating sites just to see what’s out there. We did the standard background on him so I know he’s in finance and not married, but . . .” I shrug, not needing to finish the sentence. Bex knows the drill. She’s been my secret weapon ever since she moved in.

  And yes, she invoices me for the pleasure.

  “Alright,” she says a few keystrokes later. “Based on the abundance of girls in bikini memes on his Facebook, he’s straight. He loves The Fast and the Furious, classic rock, barbeque, and The Mets.” She looks up at me, smirks. “This guy is very apple pie.”

  I laugh. “The client is very vanilla ice cream, so I’m thinking it will all work out.”

  “Another Romeo slam dunk,” she says. “Is there anyone in New York who can resist your evil machinations?”

  My smile falters.

  “What?” she asks.

  I shake my head, not wanting to admit—even to her—that my perfect streak has been broken. “Nothing. Can you print everything out? Once I gather all there is to know about this guy, I need to figure out the setup.”

  “You could do this one with your eyes closed,” Bex says as she sends a file to our printer.

  I wish I was as confident. But after the thing with April went sideways? Not so much.

  I head into Manhattan to scope out Fred Wilkins’s work to get inspired. He works in a glass behemoth in the financial district—hardly inspiring. And knowing those types, he probably doesn’t even take lunches where Carol and he could run into each other. His job isn’t romantic—numbers, money, making people (and himself) rich. Richer.

  Carol has a healthy trust fund herself, and volunteers as an assistant curator at a museum, so maybe I could arrange for him to get free tickets to an exhibition there where he could run into her. Although . . . I glance down at the printout. Something tells me this guy isn’t an art-lover. Even free tickets may not get him there.

  I head toward the guy’s building in Chelsea, stopping in Madison Square Park for a frozen custard at Shake Shack. So what if it’s only forty degrees? Real New Yorkers aren’t bothered by the cold.

  As I walk and eat, I work on how to get them together. They don’t live close enough to do a grocery store or laundromat meetup . . . I need to focus on something aligned with their interests.

  I think of his movie likes, but The Fast and the Furious doesn’t exactly scream romance. Though if she likes the movies too, it could work. I even know the owner of an old-timey movie theater who could stage a F&F marathon—for a handy fee. I stow that idea away for plan B as I let another spoonful of custard melt on my tongue.

  Fred’s a sports guy. The Mets, huh? Maybe another Kiss-Cam meet-cute is calling . . . I mean, why mess with success? Maybe I could set up adjoining tickets to a baseball game. She could sit next to him, reminisce about how she loved playing baseball in the old neighborhood. Which just happens to be his old neighborhood. Next thing they know, they realize they knew each other as kids. What a small world, she says. Maybe it’s meant to be, he agrees, half-joking.

  Bing bang boom. Another successful couple gets together, bonding over baseball, warm beer, and shared moments from their childhood. Cue the wedding march.

  A tiny voice in my head says it’s manipulative. Funny how that voice sounds a lot like April’s. I prefer to think of it as saving fate the effort. I mean, sure, people could wait around for destiny to deliver Ms. Right, but they’ll probably b
e left waiting an awfully long time. I take pride in my work. There’s a lot of art to it. Maybe even a little science. Figuring out what people will find romantic. How to get the love hormones flowing. What will connect them and give them warm fuzzies while they’re together, starting down the road to building something meaningful.

  And while April might judge what I do, she also cashes in on the romance thing. Flowers are expected on first dates, Valentine’s, birthdays. Even though they can cost a small fortune and are fleeting. They even have meanings and their own language—tell me that’s not manipulative.

  The way I see it, what I do is akin to conducting a small orchestra. Timing needs to be perfect. Like that meetup I did the other day with the couple on the street. I had to time the guy’s afternoon commute to the second, pay off the driver to come around the corner just then, and at the perfect speed. I even had to set the scene in the morning, shoveling snow to make that snowbank to ensure a soft landing. That shit doesn’t happen by accident. That’s serious skill and attention to detail. And all to deliver an unforgettable moment that will last a lifetime.

  Speaking of . . . I pull out my phone and call the client to check in.

  “Hey, Seth,” she whispers softly. “I can’t talk right now. I’m at Jack’s place!”

  I grin, happy. “So it worked out?”

  She chuckles. “We’ve been together since he saved me. We’re having the best time. I can’t thank you enough. You’re a genius!”

  I let her go and slip the phone back in my pocket, buoyed by the success. April was just an anomaly, I tell myself. My plans are good. They work. I have a bunch of committed couples under my belt. All but one—that’s a great success rate.

  So why does it still bother me? As I’m walking through Chelsea, I can’t get the thing with April out of my head. Then I realize I’m not bothered by my failure to hook her and James up. I’m bothered by her. Hot and bothered.

  That kiss.

  That forbidden, hot, sexy, shouldn’t-have-happened-but-I’m-glad-it-did kiss.

  I shouldn’t be glad it happened because it’s making me want more.

  Needing to burn off some steam, I walk over to the golf driving range at Chelsea Piers. An old client of mine used to work there and hooked me up with an unlimited pass. Maybe slamming some balls toward the Hudson river will clear my head. I rent some clubs and top up my card before I head to the bay.