5. Gemma
Chapter 5
Gemma
Ding dong.
My hand was poised on the doorknob; I was about to head out to work when the doorbell rang, so I yelped in surprise. Placing a palm over my racing heart, I took a calming breath before opening the door to find myself face-to-face with a bouquet of dark pink roses.
A chipper young man peeked his head around the massive floral arrangement. “I’ve got a delivery for a Gemma Bellini.”
My brows drew down. Who in the world would send me flowers? No one outside of Enzo knew my address, and he wasn’t my biggest fan after our last phone call.
When I remained silent, the delivery man asked, “Is this the right house?”
“Oh, yeah.” I nodded. “Sorry, you caught me a little off-guard.”
“Great.” He shoved the glass vase containing the roses into my hands. “Enjoy!” With that, he bounced down the steps and into an unmarked delivery van.
Stunned, I kicked the door shut and carried the flowers into the kitchen, setting them down on the counter. A white card sticking out of the blooms caught my attention, and I plucked it out, sliding the note from inside a tiny envelope.
Kitten, these are the same beautiful shade of pink your cheeks turned the day we met.
My mouth dropped open.
Kitten was a dead giveaway.
These were from the lunatic at the DMV, who had some sort of fetish for being yelled at and—at least in his mind—believed us to be in a relationship.
After a week, I’d shoved him to the back of my mind, but now there he was again, front and center.
I was related to guys who took lives when the occasion called for it, but somehow, the DMV guy—Sasha—was more dangerous because he was unpredictable; his mind wasn’t in touch with reality.
Hence, the flowers and some creepy note about the angry flush of my cheeks matching the color of the roses.
My first instinct was to toss them. If he was some kind of creepy stalker—as I’d initially accused him of being—he might be watching me, and keeping them would only encourage this unhinged behavior, allowing him to believe we were on the same page.
But then there was the part of my brain that argued no one had ever sent me flowers before, which begged me not to throw them away. That part, apparently, was a perfect match for the crazy person who’d purchased the roses because it won out.
The compromise I allowed myself was placing them on the dresser in my bedroom, where I had blackout curtains and no one could see inside. I would get to enjoy their beauty and fragrance in private without leading a potential psychopath to believe that I was accepting of his gift and affection if he did have eyes on me.
Yeah, I knew it was fucked up, but somewhere deep inside of me was a little girl who’d never witnessed a romantic relationship, let alone experienced one firsthand. And for just a minute, I wanted to pretend that maybe, in another life, I could have seen what real love looked like.
More fucking flowers.
“No.” I shook my head at the delivery driver. “I refuse to accept these. Take them back.”
He heaved a sigh, having been on the receiving end of this rant before. “Like I told you the last time, ma’am, I don’t work for the floral shop. I’m just contracted for the deliveries.”
“Then donate them. I don’t care what you do. I don’t want them.”
This was the third arrangement sent, each arriving the day after the previous one wilted.
The panic was rising that I was indeed being watched. The timing couldn’t be a coincidence.
When it became clear that I wouldn’t be agreeable to the handoff, the driver placed them on my front porch before whipping out his phone and taking what I assumed was a picture to prove he’d dropped them off.
“Like I said, I’m paid to deliver the flowers. No delivery, no payment. If you have an issue, take it up with the florist.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, not caring that I openly glared at him as he hopped behind the wheel and backed out of my driveway.
The shiver that rolled down my spine had nothing to do with the early November chill. The idea of that unhinged man watching me, timing his flower deliveries so they were always fresh, was too much. He hadn’t seemed dangerous with his bright smile and peppy attitude, but how many times did they interview neighbors of serial killers on the news where they were all expressing their shock because he was “such a nice guy?”
I’d just gotten my freedom. I didn’t want to lose it by getting chained up in some psycho’s basement because he had delusions about us being a couple.
Letting out a frustrated scream, I scooped up the arrangement that mimicked the colors of the changing fall leaves and kicked the door shut behind me. Setting it down on the kitchen counter, I plucked the white card from between the blossoms. But instead of slipping the message from the envelope, I scanned the logo of the flower shop printed on the outside.
Grabbing my phone, I did a quick internet search, which pulled up the business’s information, and placed the call that would hopefully put a stop to this insanity.
The line rang twice in my ear before the call connected. “Fresh as a Daisy Floral. This is Jeff. How can I help you?”
I used my service voice. “Hi there, Jeff. I was hoping you might be able to help me out regarding some arrangements I’ve been sent over the past few weeks.”
“Something wrong with them?”
“No, they’re beautiful,” I assured him, brightening my tone. “The problem is with the sender.”
His confusion was audible. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, you see, the deliveries are an unwanted advance by a gentleman whom I’ve told multiple times that I’m not interested. Yet, he continues to send them, and I feel that I’m giving him the wrong idea by continuing to accept them. I asked the delivery driver to take them back, but I can appreciate that he’s only doing his job. So, I was really hoping I might be able to have you block any future attempts by this man to send me flowers.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line.
“You’re saying you want us to refuse service to the customer paying to send you flowers?”
“Yes.” I nodded, though he couldn’t see me. “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”
Jeff heaved a heavy sigh. “This is a mom-and-pop operation; my parents worked hard to build this business from the ground up. As much as I’d like to help you, we can’t afford to be turning away paying customers. Can’t you just look at the pretty flowers like a normal girl?”
I gritted my teeth, biting back a snarky retort that would likely get me nowhere. He had no idea how not “normal” I was.
Okay, it was time to try a new tactic.
“I understand. How about this? You give me the billing address of the sender, and I’ll pop on over to his place and let him know to stop. This way, you will remain his preferred florist in the future.”
“Ma’am. I can’t divulge that information.”
Time to pull out the big guns—literally. “Jeff, I’m gonna shoot you straight. This man is harassing me at my home with these flower deliveries. If you can’t tell me where I can find him to settle this for myself, I will be forced to contact the authorities. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to put a stop to this.”
Jeff’s voice came out strangled. “Let’s slow down a minute. There’s no need to involve the cops. I can help you. What’s the name?”
A pleased smirk curved on my lips. “Thank you, Jeff. I knew I could count on you. My name is Gemma Bellini.”
There was a shuffling of papers in the background. “Ah. I’ve got it right here. Three deliveries, correct?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. “All from the same sender.”
“Let’s see.” Jeff hummed. “Huh. That’s weird.”
“What?”
“The billing address is Speed Arena.”
I paused, trying to work out what he was saying. “I’m sorry, what is—”
“Holy shit! Goose is sending you flowers?”
Who names their child Goose? What’s his brother’s name? Maverick?
Come to think of it, he did bear a resemblance to the cocky flyboy in the sequel.
No. Focus, Gemma!
“No, that can’t be right,” I countered. “He said his name was Sasha.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s Goose.”
I frowned. “I’m sorry, but you’re not making any sense.”
“Sasha Gusev, goalie for the Indy Speed. Everyone calls him Goose. That’s the name on these invoices. The billing address is the arena where they play.”
“Play what?”
“Seriously? Do you live under a rock?”
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m new in town. Can you please answer my question?”
“Hockey. The Speed are back-to-back league champions. And you’ve caught the eye of their star goalie.”
I didn’t give a shit about who he was or what he did for a living. All I knew was that I needed him to stop sending me flowers and forget that I existed.
“Thank you, Jeff. The information you provided has been very helpful. I’ll be sure to leave a glowing review on your social media platforms about the beautiful arrangements I’ve received over the past few weeks.”
His relieved rush of air sounded through the phone. “I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure. Have a great day.”
“Thanks. You too.”
I disconnected the call and grabbed my keys. It was time to put a stop to Sasha, Goose, whatever-his-name’s ideas that we were in some kind of relationship.