by Monroe, Lila
“Well, aren’t you upbeat,” Poppy says. “He kissed her, so he obviously feels something.”
“Yes,” Katie says with a smirk. “Horny.”
“Your job makes you cynical,” Natalie argues.
“My job makes me realistic,” Katie corrects her.
“Anyway,” I say, suddenly tired of talking about Seth and my dry season. “Tell me about your problems. Make me feel better about mine.”
“Oh, I’ve got one,” Poppy says as she reaches for her coffee mug. “The other day, Dylan and I were in the shower and— What?” she says, looking at me. “What’s that face for?”
I hadn’t even realized I was making a face, but since she asked. “If this story ends with multiple orgasms, it doesn’t qualify as a ‘problem.’ ”
Poppy laughs. “Well, I was going to say that we slipped and I have this giant bruise on the side of my ass now, but it was during . . . and . . . well, there was technically only one orgasm involved.”
Perfect.
I look at Natalie. “Please tell me Justin gave you food poisoning or something.”
She cringes. “We did eat in bed the other night and I woke up in the morning with cold, clammy spaghetti stuck to my ass.”
“Did he enjoy the morning snack?” Katie deadpans.
“Ewwwww!” I laugh. “Do not answer that!”
Mostly because I’m envious. Not of the clammy spaghetti, but everything else. My friends are the best, and I’m glad they’ve got amazing, hot guys in their lives, but hearing about their sexcapades can be tough to hear when I’m the last one left single.
The group in the booth beside us gets up to leave. I notice they’ve left a copy of Brides magazine behind. “Ooh, grab it!” I tell Poppy.
“Something you need to tell us?” Natalie quizzes.
“No,” I laugh, taking the magazine. “I just want to check if the Bridal List is out yet.”
I flip through the pages, but I don’t see the feature. “It’s the premiere list for all wedding service providers, from florists like me, to bridal gown shops, venues, caterers, even the best lingerie shops and honeymoon travel specialists,” I explain. “It’s the holy grail of the wedding industry. If I were to get on it, my shop would go from ‘barely keeping my head above water’ to ‘hello, house in the Hamptons.’ ”
“So, how do we get you on it?” Natalie asks, immediately grasping the situation.
“I wish I knew,” I say. “But no one knows how they make their choices. It’s all top secret, nobody even knows which staff write the list. Otherwise, they’d be smothered with freebies all year around.”
“Well, I’m sure you have a great chance,” Poppy says loyally. “Your flowers are gorgeous.”
“Me, and the other million florists in this town,” I say ruefully. “But thanks.”
Katie looks up from her phone. “Who’s free tonight? I’m on the VIP list for some new vodka? Habanero Heartbreak? They invited me as an influencer because of my blog and business.” She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Let’s all go—food, free drinks, hot dudes. We’ll find someone there that you’ll have sparks with. Right, ladies?”
Poppy and Natalie let out a big “Whoop!” in unison.
I love my girls, I really do.
Katie grins. “This is New York City—guys and sparks are everywhere!”
I just hope she’s right. The last thing I need is my own Habanero Heartbreak. Whatever that even means.
When I get back from brunch, I find my landlady, Mrs. Kincaid, taping a sheet of paper to my door.
“Hello?”
She turns and looks at me, apologetic. “Oh, April, I’m so sorry. But one of your neighbors complained about the greenhouse on the roof. You’re going to have to remove all your plants so we can take it down.”
I blink at the woman as this sinks in.
“Who could have a problem with a greenhouse?” I ask. Though I know exactly who. The lady who lives upstairs from me who always gives me dirty looks when she sees me on my way up to tend to my garden.
“I moved in here because of that greenhouse,” I say, frustrated. “I took it from a neglected old eyesore to a functional greenhouse. You said yourself just last week that you loved what I’ve done with it. You know, when I brought you the herbal tea and lilies that I grew myself?”
She winces. “I know, April, and if it was up to me, you could keep it. But apparently it’s an unpermitted structure. I could get in trouble with the city if I don’t take it down.”
I sigh. “That’s OK,” I reassure her. “I’ll get it cleared out. How long do I have?”
“Until tomorrow,” she says.
Well, I guess I know what I’m doing with the rest of my weekend.
I grab my work gloves and some old crates and head upstairs to the roof. I wasn’t exaggerating before: the greenhouse and tiny roof garden was the entire reason I chose this building. And since I’ve been living here, my green thumb has transformed the space from a junkyard eyesore to a thriving garden. I have potted plants and greenery growing along the walls, and I use the creaky old structure to tend to seedlings, coaxing them through the cold winters until they’re warm enough to plant outside.
Now, I guess they’ll have to manage on my bathroom radiator.
I pack everything up and make the dozen-odd trips downstairs, trying not to feel so heartbroken. I know it’s just a garden, but I’ve tended to it every day. It’s my happy place, a corner of something special in this often unforgiving city. I know I have my flower shop, but that’s different: everything has to be perfect there, but here? This is where I indulge my green thumb, growing things because they make me feel happy, not because someone’s willing to pay top dollar for them.
I dismantle the contents of the greenhouse, and soon, the plants are crowding the apartment. I just hope Katie doesn’t mind sharing living space with a dozen potted ferns! I’m just coaxing my baby orchids into position when my cellphone rings with an unfamiliar number.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Is this the florist?” a woman’s voice asks, sounding high-pitched and panicky.
“Yes, this is Bloom. How can I help you?”
I cross my fingers for a nice big commission, and luckily, the Gods of Rent are on my side, because the next thing the woman blurts is, “I need to hire you! It’s my bridal shower, you see, and the florist I was working with just fell through.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I tell her, privately punching the air in victory. “When would you like to book for?”
“This weekend!”
I blink. “Um, what?”
“I know it’s last minute, but I don’t know what else to do,” the woman babbles. “I had someone all booked, but it turns out she hooked up with my maid of honor’s husband—at their wedding!”
“Oh. Dear.”
“When they found out, the shit hit the fan. So now I have zero flowers and an event space booked upstate. I don’t suppose you can help me?” she asks, pleading. “I can pay whatever you need. Wait . . .”
My phone bings with a notification.
“There,” the woman says. “I just sent you the deposit. That will work, right?”
I check the number she just Venmo’d me. My eyes boggle. “Umm . . .”
“That’s just up front. The other woman quoted me five thousand dollars for the job, but I can pay you more, since it’s such a rush job.”
My jaw drops. The deposit is more than my rent. For two months. More than fair doesn’t quite cover it. Cha-ching almost does.
“Thank you,” I manage. “Let me just get a pen so I can write down the details.”
I scribble down all the vital info (allergic to lilies, loves the color purple), then hang up with a promise that her event space will be full to bursting on Saturday night.
“And then we can talk about the wedding,” the woman adds. Even better!
By the time I put down the phone, I’m just about ready to drop. I let out a massive yawn just as K
atie waltzes in. “No yawning!” she cries. “The night’s just getting started!”
“I don’t know if I’m in the mood to party . . .” I say, reluctant.
“Which is all the more reason you need to go out.”
Katie steers me to my closet and picks out something short, tight, and, I’m pretty sure, belonging to her. A quick attack of the curling iron later, and we’re headed to the club . . . which is decked out in spicy shades of red and orange to celebrate this tequila drink.
“Understated,” Poppy quips, looking around.
“Hey, it’s free,” Katie points out, making a beeline for the bar. One round of spicy tequila shots later, and she doesn’t look so enthusiastic. “They should be paying us to drink this stuff!” she cries, screwing up her face. “What’s in this?”
“Umm, ghost peppers and sad tears?” Natalie offers.
“I think I’ll stick to a margarita,” I decide. “With normal booze.”
We get our drinks and take a look around.
“He’s not bad,” Natalie says, nodding to a guy in the corner.
“Or him.” Poppy points out another man, dancing with some friends.
“Are you guys back on the market?” I tease.
“No, we’re finding you a palate cleanser!” Poppy grins.
“Something to take the taste of Seth out of your mouth,” Natalie agrees.
I smile. “Look, it’s sweet of you to try, but I’m not really in the mood tonight. I just came to dance with you guys.”
“So, you’re not moping over Mr. Unavailable?” Poppy checks.
“Nope!” I declare. “This is a mope-free zone.”
“Good.” She hugs me—almost spilling my drink.
“You guys stake out a spot on the dance floor, I’ll be right back,” I tell them, then I slip away to the bathroom.
I wasn’t lying, not exactly. I am here to dance with them, and I’m not moping over Seth.
Much.
No, my initial rejection has shifted into curiosity. Because it seems obvious to me that Seth and I have some kind of crazy chemistry. So why is he being so blind?
I can’t resist pulling out my phone and starting a message to him.
At a terrible club serving really awful drinks. Want to join me?
DELETE.
Want a late-night wiener?
DELETE.
U up?
DELETE DELETE DELETE.
I sigh. As much as I hate to admit it, Katie was right: if Seth wanted to date me enough, he’d, you know, date me.
And the fact that I’m stuck in a club bathroom, furiously deleting texts instead of having an amazing makeout with him, tells me everything I need to know.
Feeling like an idiot, I put my phone away and leave the bathroom. Crisis averted.
Because I’d rather spend the night dancing with my friends and getting drunk on cheap tequila than risk my pride chasing after a guy who’s made it clear he’s definitely out of reach.
Make that very drunk.
11
Seth
I kissed her again. I still can’t believe that I let things escalate with April. Twice. Once is an accident, especially when she’s damn adorable. But twice? That’s just careless. And not me. I have way more control than that. Usually.
“. . . Seth?”
I turn. I’m with Winston, at his tailor’s shop in Midtown. Because of course Winston has a bespoke tailor to custom-make all his dapper suits. He’s decided it’s time for me and Nico, one of the other Romeos, to suit up and get fitted, too.
“What do you think, the winter-weight wool? Or a lighter blend?”
“Umm, both. Either?” I reply. Winston likes the finer things in life, but to be honest, I’m more a jeans and vintage T-shirt kind of a guy.
“We’ll try the lighter one,” Winston tells the assistant authoritatively. “And let’s get a sample of the linen, too.”
He turns back to where Nico and I are trying on jackets and gives an approving nod. “Clothes maketh the man, that’s what I always say.”
“As long as Winston taketh the check,” Nico leans over and whispers.
I grin.
Nico pauses, tugging at his sleeves. “Isn’t this kind of tight?”
“No, it’s what a well-fitted jacket actually feels like. I’m tired of you looking like a street urchin,” Winston scolds from behind his martini glass. “You work for a successful business catering to a high-end clientele, you should look the part.”
I’m not about to disagree. My trust-fund client, Carol, has invited us to an upcoming art show opening at her museum. It’ll be a who’s who of the elite set: All Rolex and Gucci, diamonds and Botox. Winston has decided we’ll go to schmooze and be seen. Well, he’ll want to be seen. Nico and I will be expected to network and gather leads for new clients, talk up the firm and our boss.
“Also,” Winston drawls, “ladies can’t resist a man in a well-tailored suit, can they, Ed?”
The tailor looks up from where he’s kneeling on the floor, pinning the hem of Winston’s pants. “No, they cannot,” he says, grinning. Although, there’s a good chance he’s grinning about the huge bill he’ll be sending Winston.
“I don’t have any trouble in that department,” Nico says, cocky. “Just ask Hannah. And Trish.” He laughs. “Oh, and Corrine.”
I roll my eyes at his bragging, but Winston just laughs. “That’s my boy. And what about you?” Winston asks, turning to me.
“What’s that?”
“Distracted, are we? I hope it’s because you’re thinking about your next meet-cute.”
‘Uh, something like that,” I agree quickly.
The last thing I can do is tell him I’m distracted because of a woman. Especially the woman I failed to set up with a client. And shouldn’t even be thinking about, let alone kissing.
“Late night last night,” I add. “You know how it is.”
“I do,” Winston chuckles. “What’s her name?”
“Oh, there’s no one in particular,” I say evasively. “Just playing the field, as usual.”
“That’s the way to do it.” Winston nods. “You know how women get about romance. They think it’s all hearts and flowers, when we really know the truth.” He winks. “After all, why settle for one candy, when you can have the whole box?”
We finish up at the fitting and head out, but I’m barely halfway down the street when my cellphone rings.
Damn, it’s James. Again. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but I already feel guilty as it is. I can’t dodge the guy.
“I need you to do me a favor,” he says in a low voice when I answer.
“For sure,” I say. “I’m happy to arrange a meetup with someone else—gratis, because of . . . well, because of what happened. You have someone in mind?”
“No, not like that,” he says. He’s talking so fast I can barely hear him. “I need you to get a hold of April for me.”
I sigh. “James,” I start. “It’s done with April. I’m sorry, it’s just not going to—”
“It’s not done,” he interrupts me. “We’re supposed to have a romantic weekend away. But I’m stuck in surgery.”
“Wait, what?” The last time I talked to April—the last time I kissed April—she wanted nothing to do with this guy. Now she’s heading out on a romantic weekend with him? “How did that happen?”
“Emergency appendectomy.”
“No, no,” I say. “Not the surgery. You and April?”
“Oh, that,” he says, and I can actually hear the smile in his voice. “Well, you weren’t getting anywhere, so I decided to orchestrate a little meet-cute of my own. I’m whisking her off to a romantic getaway upstate.”
“And she’s on board with this?” I ask, getting a very bad feeling.
“Well, not yet,” he chuckles. “But I got a colleague to call her, pretending she had a florist job for her. She thinks she going to set up some bridal shower, but, it’ll be me waiting for her instead.”
>
I gape. “You did WHAT?”
“Hey, man, it’s no different than what you do,” he scolds. “Anyway, my surgery ran long, so I won’t be able to get out of here on time. Can you call her and cancel, somehow? Without blowing my cover.”
Is this guy serious? Apparently so.
“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. It’s a good thing we’re talking on the phone so I’m not tempted to punch his smug face. “When is she supposed to leave?”
“Uhhh, like three hours ago?”
Fucking hell. “And you’re just calling me now?” I can barely contain my anger. April will probably be up there by now, wondering what the hell is going on.
“Dude,” James says. “I had my hands in some kid’s body, saving his life. Cut me some slack.”
Deep breaths.
“Fine, I’ll take care of it,” I tell him, scowling. “Text me the address.”
I hang up before I can lay into him. Because of all the stupid, selfish, downright creepy-as-fuck stunts to pull . . .
I try to call April, but there’s no reply, so I call Nico, and fast.
“Hey, man,” I say when he picks up. “I need to borrow your car.”
Fifty miles later, I’m still furious at James. I’ll need the entire drive to fucking Schenectady to calm down.
I’ve never lost my shit on a client before, but what James did nearly pushes me over the edge. He crossed the line. Not to mention it backfired tremendously. This is why guys like him should leave it to the pros. We see all angles. We mitigate risks and run through all worst-case scenarios.
Also, we don’t lure unsuspecting women out into the middle of nowhere under false pretenses. I mean, come on: that’s Meet-Cute 101!
I watch as the landscape turns snowy and desolate. April still isn’t picking up her phone—if she even has reception all the way up here. This time of year, upstate New York isn’t exactly a non-stop party. In fact, I haven’t seen another car in an hour. All I can hope is that April is safely tucked away at some expensive country hotel on James’s dime, drinking hot chocolate and enjoying some idyllic winter scenery from an overstuffed leather chair beside a roaring fire.