Dream On(11)
“Cute,” I murmur to myself as I open the door. A bell tinkles and a dog barks from somewhere deeper in the store. I tense at the series of growl-laced woofs, but relax when I spot the dog waddling over from behind the counter. He’s long and plump like a corgi with the floppy ears of a beagle, and his short white-and-brown fur is covered with dusty yellow splotches. Not exactly a ferocious Cujo.
“Hi, sweetie,” I say, extending a hand to let him sniff me. When he licks my fingers, I give him a good scratch behind the ear. “Who’s a good doggie? Who’s a good doggie?” He wags his tail once at my ridiculous baby voice, then moseys back through the shop, brushing against a row of lilies as he goes. And that must be why he’s yellow—from the pollen. Retreating behind the counter, he flops into a worn navy-blue bed strewn with petals and bits of greenery.
“He likes you.” I look up to find a man about my age studying me from behind the counter, chin resting on palm, elbow propped next to the cash register. His thick, tawny-brown hair gleams in the light. Straightening, he flashes me a grin. “To be fair, The Colonel likes everyone.”
“The Colonel?”
The guy nods at the dog. “Colonel Archibald Buttersworth III. But he prefers The Colonel for short. Don’t forget the ‘The.’?” He winks.
The Colonel heaves a grunting sigh that’s halfway between a potbellied pig and a humpback whale, rolls onto his back, and splays out with all four legs in the air. A giggle bursts out of me. “Very dignified.”
The man chuckles and edges around the counter, careful not to disturb the snoozing dog. “What can I help you find?” He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and the lightly corded muscles of his forearms flex. His height is a touch above average, maybe a shade under six feet, and he has a lean build. I wouldn’t call him “hot” exactly—a mop of wavy brown hair crowns a pleasant enough face—but there’s a crackling energy to him, like he’s about to either pull an epic prank or deliver the knockout punch line to a joke. Maybe it’s the way his eyebrows tilt upward at the end, giving him an inherently mischievous look.
Tucking my bag closer to my side, I grip the leather strap. “I came in for lilies, but I’d like to browse a bit first.”
“Well, in addition to flowers, we offer frames, vases, cards, candles, art, and handcrafts. What’s the occasion? Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” Narrowing his eyes at me, he taps a finger against his Cupid’s bow lips. “You had a rough day and need a pick-me-up.”
“No, the opposite actually. I started a new job.”
“Ah, well. That was going to be my second guess. Congrats.”
The phone on the counter rings. “Can you get that?” he shouts over his shoulder. The phone rings again. “If I might make a sugges—” he begins, but the insistent trill of the phone cuts him off.
His smile tightens. “Excuse me.” Bounding to the far corner of the store, he sticks his head through a door marked Employees Only. “I’m with a customer. Phone.” I can tell from his tone that he’s gritting his teeth.
“Okay, okay. I’ll get it,” a muffled, deep voice responds.
Goose bumps rise along my forearms, and I pull my suit coat tighter around me. The air conditioner must have kicked on. Rubbing my arms, I examine a shelf of hand-dipped candles.
A door clicks shut and the clerk reappears. “Where were we… flowers, right? While you browse, how about I make you a specialty bouquet? Say, fifty dollars?”
His open, eager face pulls a smile from me. “Okay, sure.”
“Great!” The man is a whirl of movement. Plucking a tall glass vase from one of the many shelves lining the shallow, semiopen area behind the cash register, he fills it with water and places it in front of me on the counter. “Now let’s see.” His gaze flickers across my face as though he can divine my future from the constellation of freckles on my nose. Heat travels up my neck and into my cheeks at the scrutiny—I can’t help it. After several long seconds, he blinks, seeming to rouse himself from whatever trance he was in, and snaps his fingers. “Got it. You need anemones,” he says.
I lift my eyebrows. “You sell fish too?”
The man chuckles again, eyes shining with mirth. “Wrong kind of anemone.” He plucks several flowers out of a bucket on the floor and holds them up so I can see. The petals are a striking shade of deep, rich violet. “We had a cool spring this year, so we still have some of these beauties left.” Twirling one of the thick green stems between his fingers, he strides to the back wall, which is filled with rows of tilted bins holding a multitude of different flowers. “We need blue delphinium, for height. Snap dragons. Limonium.” As he says each name, he picks flowers out of bins—a gorgeous array of shades ranging from pale lavender to royal purple. “What else?”
“Hydrangeas?” I say, drawn in despite myself.
He makes a sound in his throat halfway between a snort and a laugh. “No.”
“Why not? I like hydrangeas.”
“Of course, you do, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Everyone likes hydrangeas because they’re everywhere. But I have a feeling… your occasion is too special for hydrangeas.” When our eyes meet, he offers me a shy smile.
This guy is flirting with me. When’s the last time a man actually flirted with me? Maybe law school? There was Ben, my ex. But after we broke up third year I got so buried in school and job hunting I didn’t go to a single party or law school get-together until graduation. And postaccident I was a literal wreck. I’m so out of practice it’s pathetic. Should I smile back? Wink? Toss my hair and say, “Why, thank you,” in a throaty purr? Do I even want to flirt with him?