Flower(2)

I’m still lost in the moment when a shiver rises up along the base of my neck—someone’s watching me.

I glance up from the mess on the table in front of me and catch my breath.

A boy is standing on the other side of the counter, hands in his pockets, looking at me. I didn’t even hear the door chime when he came in. I flinch, straightening up from where I’ve been leaning over the bouquets, and realize that the wide neck of my tank top has sagged low over my chest, exposing the curve of my pink bra.

“Can I help you?” I ask, quickly silencing the music coming from my phone and sliding it into the back pocket of my jeans, swallowing down the embarrassment buzzing across my skin.

He studies me, his dark eyes lifting from my collarbone up to my face, as if he can’t quite find the answer to my question. “I need flowers.”

He’s gorgeous, I realize: hard cheekbones and lips that meet in a firm line...lips that hold my gaze for a moment too long.

“Do you know what you’re looking for?” I force my brain to cycle through its usual string of questions while my eyes continue to drift over him: torn jeans, close-cropped hair, and a thin T-shirt half tucked into his belt. The muscles of his arms are just visible beneath the cotton sleeves, and his chest is broad. He has the kind of body Carlos loves to point out on the streets of LA—guys leaving gyms and nightclubs or going for a jog down Sunset—tall, muscular, and lean.

Not that I should be noticing how he’s built.

I blink and slide my gaze back to his face. There’s something guarded there, as if he caught me assessing him and is waiting for the verdict. I can only hope my cheeks don’t look as flushed as they suddenly feel.

“Not yet,” he answers after a moment, his voice low.

“Follow me,” I say automatically, stepping out from behind the counter. He keeps his distance behind me as we walk to the back of the shop, where a wall of roses and lilies and finished bouquets wait to be picked up by customers or loaded onto one of Holly’s delivery trucks. I gesture toward the cooler, trying not to let my eyes settle too long on his face. There is a discipline to ignoring guys this attractive, and I pride myself on my mastery. But something about this boy is making me uncomfortable—too aware of my posture, my clumsy hands, my still-warm cheeks. “You can’t go wrong with roses.”

He looks from me to the flowers, his jaw clenching and unclenching. I know this routine, I see it all the time: Guy needs flowers for girlfriend’s anniversary or to say sorry for something, but has no idea what color or how many or if they should be wrapped or in a vase, and then agonizes at the counter trying to decide what to write on the tiny square card that I will attach to the bouquet.

His eyes are on me now, and I can’t help but steal another glance. Somewhere in the framework of his face, the structure of his perfect jawline, and the dark brilliance of his eyes, he looks vaguely familiar. Maybe he goes to my school—one of the tortured, brooding guys who smoke cigarettes between classes out by the parking lot.

“Do I know you?” I ask, instantly wishing I hadn’t. If he does go to my school, I’d rather pretend I don’t know him when I see him in the halls, avoid that awkward half smile and nod.

He shifts his weight, shoulders lifting with his hands still in his pockets, like he’s waiting for me to answer my own question. Silence slips between us and the corner of his mouth twitches.

My phone whistles from my back pocket. I ignore it, but it chimes again.

“Popular,” he says, one eyebrow raised.

“Hardly. I just have a persistent best friend.” I slide the phone out quickly, turning the ringer to vibrate.

“You can answer it.”

“No. He just wants me to go to some party.”

“And you’re not going?”

I shake my head. “I have to close up.”

“And after that?” He tilts his head slightly, and I swear I know him—but there’s something about him, something that tells me I should leave it alone.

“Homework,” I answer simply.

“You can’t take one night off to go out?”

I eye him, wondering why he even cares. “If I don’t want to work at this flower shop for the rest of my life, then no.”

A flicker registers in his eyes, the hint of a smirk, a shallow dimple on his left cheek.

“What’s your favorite?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“My favorite what?”

He angles his chin, nodding toward the displays all around us. “Your favorite flower.”

“I don’t really—”

“You must have one.” The dimple flashes again, here and then gone. “You work in a flower shop. You’re literally surrounded by them.”

“I do...” I hedge. “But I don’t think you’ll want them.”

His eyes narrow, as if he’s intrigued. “That’s not very good salesmanship.”

I examine the buckets exploding with blooms—colorful orchids and fragrant lilies. Hydrangeas and peonies that are never in season but always popular. And the more unusual varieties—Astras, ranunculuses, dahlias, and camellias. “I like the purple roses,” I tell him, and I think he’s shifted a half step closer, close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted.

“Why?” he asks.