by Monroe, Lila
“Um, sure.” I brace myself, because that look on his face? It’s not good.
“Do we have a problem?” Winston asks, his voice dangerously calm.
I drop my eyes from his. I’m conflicted because he’s done so much for me, but something feels wrong right now. I owe him my honesty, no matter what. I take a breath. “When one of the parties doesn’t know what’s happening, I guess there’s potential for things to go badly. Especially if there’s a history there.”
Winston frowns.
I can’t tell Winston about what James did without getting into what happened between April and me, but James can’t have been the first client to take things too far. “We need to be careful what jobs we take on, is what I’m saying. There’s a fine line between being persistent and . . . stalking.”
Winston laughs and slaps me on the back. “You’re just being paranoid. All’s fair in love and war. Anyway, if it wasn’t for us, the meet-cutes would still happen, just not as well. And you and I would be wearing off-the-rack suits. We’re providing a good, needed service. Everyone wins.”
I look around the room at all of my colleagues. Everyone is laughing and talking, no one seeming to be at all concerned about what I said. Least of all, Winston. But as I grab my coat and get ready to leave, I realize something has changed.
And there’s a good chance that something is me.
I head down to April’s shop, not just because I have a free afternoon or to get inspired to come up with a date plan, but because I want to see her. Those other things, too, but the last most of all.
When I walk in, she’s behind the counter, looking down at a notebook. She’s downright adorable in the apron she wears over her dress with big roses on it, her hair up in a ponytail, floral nametag in place. I want to take a picture, but she glances up when the bell on the door jingles.
Her smile quickly turns from polite and friendly to a very steamy “Helllloooo, you haven’t been in my bed for way too many hours” expression. That’s what I want the picture of.
“Seth!” she beams, coming around the counter to greet me. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, you know, just need some flowers for my aunt.”
She smacks my arm playfully. “Shut up. What are you really doing here?”
I take her hand and tug her to the back room. “Three guesses,” I whisper, kissing her. And again. And again.
She sighs happily against my mouth. “And here I thought the highlight of my day was going to be a giant caramel macchiato.”
Her hands come around my back, pulling me close. I press my hips into hers, loving the feel of her body against me.
“Mmm,” she hums, kissing me. “This is way better than coffee.”
I look around and think of what I could do with her on that big, stainless-steel prep table. If it weren’t covered in flowers and green blocks of foam.
Still, I grab her by the waist and lift her up to sit on the edge of the table, stepping between her legs and returning to kissing her. She tastes like mint and sunshine, and I wonder if I’ll ever get enough of her. I start to push her back onto the table, but she pulls out of the kiss.
She smirks at me. “As incredibly hot and naughty it would be to do this here . . . I need to get to work on a big job.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Is it cheesy if I say I have a big job for you?” I ask, bending to suck at the spot just behind her ear that makes her wild.
“Yes,” she breathes, her pulse hammering under my lips. “But . . . save that thought for later?”
Reluctantly, I pull back. “Consider it saved.”
She runs her hands up and down my chest in a way that tells me how much she really doesn’t want to stop. “I’m sorry. I really do need to work. I can’t afford to let any of my jobs slip while I’m still hoping to get on the Bridal List.”
“Bridal List?”
“It’s the annual who’s who of wedding suppliers. It would be huge for me if I could get listed.”
“And how do you do that?” I ask, still distracted by her lips.
“That’s the thing,” she sighs. “No one knows. The magazine keeps it all top secret. Trust me, everyone’s trying to figure out a spot.”
“Okaaaay,” I say, thinking now. “So, what’s your strategy?”
She gives a helpless shrug. “Do my best on all my jobs. What else can I do? I’m good at what I do, so I hope to get noticed.”
Hope? Her strategy is hope? She’s right that she’s great at what she does and deserves to get attention for it. But I can do way better than hope.
I straighten my shirt and head for the door. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“Busy day?” she asks.
“It is now.” I kiss her one last time, and then I head out with a new mission in mind.
If this is important to April, well, it’s important to me, too now. I’m going to come up with a foolproof plan to get her on that list.
16
April
I prepared for plenty of scenarios when Seth invited me over to his apartment: crazy frat-boy roommates, a kamikaze pet, a sad single mattress on the floor in the corner of an empty room . . . But this?
I was definitely not expecting this.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” I ask, staring at the living room wall, which basically looks like something you’d see on Criminal Minds. In the psychopath’s lair. The background is a map of Manhattan, and layered on top are photos of people, scribbles, a million Post-its, and red thread linking everything together.
“Like the fact you’re a serial killer in your spare time?
Seth laughs. “This is just research!”
“For what?” I ask, still confused. Just then, a smiling girl with a pixie haircut and glasses wanders in, eating Doritos from the bag. She sticks out her orange-dusted hand, then seems to reconsider.
“I’m Bex. The roommate.”
“Oh, hi,” I say, thrown. I didn’t know Seth lived with a girl. A cute girl.
“Don’t worry, we haven’t banged,” Bex says with a grin. “And also, we have no intention of ever banging. Believe me, once you’ve seen a guy’s dirty laundry, it kind of ruins the fantasy.”
I laugh with relief. “Thanks for the warning,” I tell her, relaxing. “Do you know what all of this is about?” I ask, nodding to the murder wall.
“This is for you!” Seth exclaims, beaming proudly.
“Huh?”
“For Operation: Bridal List,” he explains. “I know you said that nobody knows who makes the decisions about which vendors to feature, but that just means nobody’s figured it out. Yet.”
I wander closer.
“See, I cross-referenced the Brides magazine editorial department and their social media, along with the past five years of the list. I figured out where the editors live, work, and play, and then mapped it out to see if there’s any patterns with the people who get picked for the list. Any neighborhoods or common social interests, places that would show how they’re making their decisions.”
Bex clears her throat.
“Sorry, we figured it out,” Seth corrects himself with a smile. “Bex here is my secret weapon.”
“I’m not secret,” she says. “I’m happy to brag about my amazing skills, all day long.”
I take it all in, putting together what he’s just told me with what’s in front of my eyes. Is it possible to be impressed and also seriously unnerved at the same time?
“OK, so this is only slightly creepy,” I begin.
Seth’s face falls a little.
“I mean, it’s really smart, but . . . Is this what you do for clients?” I ask. I stare at the web of information in disbelief. Thanks to social media check-ins, he’s figured out where the fashion assistant likes to get her morning coffee, and that the head of merchandising gets a weekly manicure at Suki’s salon on the Upper West Side. “As in, did you make one of these for me?”
“Maybe . . .” Seth looks guilty. “But not so d
etailed. Anyway,” he says, hurrying to change the subject. “I’m using my skills for good here!”
Clearly, he’s really proud of his work. I guess if all this stuff was easily searchable via social media and the magazine’s public information, there isn’t really anything wrong with turning it into usable data.
Much.
Plus, I’m intrigued. Getting on the Bridal List would be such a big deal for Bloom, I can’t help wanting to know more.
“Alright,” I say slowly. “So now that we have all this deeply personal information, what do we do with all of this, exactly?”
Seth exhales, relieved. “Well, your flowers are gorgeous, but you can’t just wish and hope that they’ll notice you by accident. We have to plan to make it happen. I mean, that’s what I do with clients, right? Put them in each other’s way so they have no choice but to notice each other. We need to do the same for Bloom. Get your flowers to meet-cute with the editors at the magazine and make sure they notice how amazing you are.”
“That makes sense . . . As much as any murder board can,” I add, teasing. “And how do we do that?”
“Bex?” Seth says, turning toward his co-conspirator, I mean, roommate.
Bex adjusts her glasses. “I’ve cross-referenced the magazine staff’s social media to figure out where they check into most. The map of their daily routines. So we take that information and go offer those places free arrangements for the next few weeks.”
“That way, they’ll definitely see you!” Seth says, beaming proudly at his master plan.
It’s smart, for sure. But . . .
“Isn’t that kind of manipulative?” I have to ask.
“Not more than any other type of advertising,” Seth argues. “You’re getting your name out there, but just in a very targeted way. I mean, when you look at Facebook or Instagram, companies use your location and interests to target you with ads all the time. This is just taking that to the real world, that’s all.”
I suppose he’s not wrong.
I bite my thumbnail, letting this all sink in.
“It’s basic familiarity theory,” Bex adds, waving a hand. “It’s a proven fact that the more people are familiar with something, the more they like it. Those editors will see your name everywhere they go. They’ll get comfortable with it and will assume you’re a much bigger deal than you are. That you totally should be on the list.”
“I should be on that list,” I say. Because it’s true.
Seth smiles at my mantra. “And anyway, who doesn’t love getting flowers? You’ll make everywhere look better with the arrangements, brighten all the customers’ days. Everyone wins.”
He’s making an excellent argument. Especially when it means it’ll increase my chances of getting on the list. “Alright,” I say, exhaling, excited. “I’m in.”
“Yes!” Seth pumps the air. “Plus, there’s phase two.”
“Uh-oh,” I say. “Are we kidnapping anyone?”
He laughs. “It’s nothing like that, I promise. We’re also going to get some of your bouquets right to the editors,” Seth says. “Bex?”
It’s like they’re some sort of evil tag team. She rattles off a phone number as Seth dials on speaker.
A guy answers. “Jason speaking.”
“Oh, hi, Jason,” Bex speaks. “I’m calling to let you know you’ve won a free premium bouquet from Bloom Florals, sent anywhere in the city.”
There’s a pause. “Free?” he asks, sounding suspicious.
“No strings attached!” Bex trills. “You’re one of our monthly winners.”
“I didn’t enter any competition.”
“Did you drop your business card in a bowl, perhaps? Or sign up to a new service this month?”
“Oh, yeah . . . I think I did.”
“Well, then! Who would you like your bouquet sent to? A girlfriend or wife, perhaps?”
The guy takes the bait. “Oh, cool. Actually, it’s my girlfriend’s birthday tomorrow. You can send it to her work.”
“And where’s that?”
“Brides magazine. It’s in Midtown, let me get the address.”
I gape in awe as Bex takes down the information. When the call is done, she prints it out and hands it to me. “Voila! One bouquet, sitting on her desk tomorrow. And she’s just the start. We can do the whole editorial team by the end of the week.”
“You two are evil geniuses.” I laugh as they high-five each other. “And I kind of love it.”
After we plot my Bridal List domination, I head back to the store to whip up the bouquets that will hopefully win me a place on the list. This is my favorite part of the job: building the stunning displays with just the right flowers, so the bouquets don’t just look amazing, but smell fabulous, too. Using Seth’s social media research, I’m even able to tailor the blooms to the person: something edgy and dramatic for the fashion editor with the red lipstick and blunt-cut bangs, and a more romantic posy for the newlywed deputy with blonde curls and pearls. Hydrangeas with blush-pink roses and a hint of trailing wisteria blossoms . . .
“Fancy,” Remy says, admiring my handiwork. “Who’s the big spender?”
“Nobody.” I wince. “I’m making them all on spec. But if they help Bloom get on the list . . .”
“You’ve got to spend money to make money,” Remy agrees. “I’ll deliver these myself. Maybe pick up some extra intel.”
“Thank you.” I beam gratefully. “Now, what makes a good housewarming gift for someone who can’t even keep a basil plant alive?”
“Orchids,” Remy answers without hesitating.
“You’re the best.” I select a stunning potted orchid to take with me to Poppy and Dylan’s for their housewarming party.
“Well, duh,” Remy grins. “Good enough for a raise?”
“If we make it on the list, I promise!” I call on my way out the door.
I head uptown to Dylan’s swanky building. I’m early, so I can help Poppy set up—and gossip, of course.
“Happy housewarming!” I cheer as she opens the penthouse door.
“Oh, what a beautiful plant!” she cries, smiling. “I’m going to feel really bad about killing this one.”
I laugh. “Three ice cubes a week,” I say, pointing at the little card I made special for my black-thumbed friend. “It’s Poppy-proof, I swear!”
“You always say that,” Poppy grins. “And I always prove you wrong.”
Natalie joins us. “What a pretty orchid,” she says, and then she turns to me. “Better start the grieving process now.”
I snort. “It’ll be fine.” Though I’m being optimistic. My friend’s parents might have named her Poppy, but maybe ironically. I’ve seen her kill a cactus.
“Come on in,” Poppy waves us in. “You can help me with all these appetizers. Dylan wanted to hire caterers, but that felt too richy-rich. Although, now that I’m trying to wrap a hundred tiny potatoes with bacon, I’m kind of wishing I’d taken him up on the offer.”
We get settled in the kitchen, assembling snacks while I tell them about Seth’s strategies to get me on the Bridal List.
“I love it,” Natalie cheers. “both because he’s right and you should get on that list. But also that he’s doing this for you. Effort and career support? He’s a keeper.”
“Maybe . . .” I blush.
“He’s coming tonight, right?” Poppy says. “You invited him?”
I nod. “Yes, but . . . ugh . . . don’t be . . . you know.”
She exchanges a glance with Natalie, who asks, “What does that mean?”
“She doesn’t want us embarrassing her in front of her new boyfriend.”
“Oh,” Natalie deadpans. “You mean the guy who ended her dry season and makes her all googly-eyed?”
“Shut up!”
“Don’t worry,” Poppy says, serious. “We won’t tell him all about how long that dry season really was. Or how much you love that he . . . watered it.”
I cringe. “Gross!”
“And we definitely won’t tell him all your other embarrassing stories.”
“Right.” Natalie nods. “Just the top five. Like that Halloween incident . . .”
“And the karaoke!” Poppy adds.
“I hate you both right now!” I try to glare, but I can’t help laughing. Still, I’m nervous by the time guests start arriving and Seth finally walks through the door. But thankfully, everyone behaves. I mean, I knew they would, because they’re my besties, but still, who knows what happens after the punch starts flowing?
“And this is for you,” Seth tells Dylan and Poppy, presenting a bottle of good scotch. “I figure we can toast to your good health.”
“Aww, thank you,” Poppy says, shooting me an approving grin. And, if she didn’t make it clear enough, she adds a thumbs up.
So far, so good. It also makes it feel official. I met his roommate-slash-partner-in-crime and now he’s met my friends. Next up: families. I’ve never really taken a boyfriend home, but I know Mom and Mike will like him.
Wow. Taking a boyfriend home. Is that where we are?
Natalie appears at my side. “Uh-oh, April’s overthinking things.”
“Am not!”
Natalie smirks. “You need to relax. Let’s play pool.”
I scrunch up my nose. I pretty much suck at all sports, games, and diversions. “I don’t know . . .”
“We play pool, or I’m telling Seth about that time you were at the club and saw Tina Fey and fangirled so hard you spilled your margarita on her.”
I gasp. “That never happened to me and you know it. You spilled after basically assaulting her!”
She shrugs. “He doesn’t know that.”
“Two can play that game.” I narrow my eyes, trying to look evil and conniving. “I wonder if Justin knows the real story?”
“If Justin knows what story?” the man in question says as he and Seth approach.