10. No Jack Holes Here
10
NO JACK HOLES HERE
Milo
What kind of businessman would I be to pass on a new hire because I was attracted to her?
The worst.
That’d be rudely unfair.
Clearly, Veronica is right for the job.
Also, what kind of flaming asshole would I be if I said, Hey, Miss Cute Devil Butt, I wanted to ask you out for cake and orgasms, so I can’t hire you, but I’d like to test the strength of my couch with you?
The kind of guy I refuse to be—a jack hole.
Which means, after Iris trains Veronica on Saturday, come Monday morning I’m working side by side in my shop with the woman I wanted to take home and bend over a piece of furniture.
As I spin the pedals on a new custom design, I steal a glance across the store to the flower half of Bikes and Blooms where Veronica’s tying a bow around a bouquet of white jasmine. Wearing a yellow Blooms apron cinched at the waist and a cute blue dress with white polka dots, she looks good enough to eat. And I am a bad, bad man for checking out my new manager while she rings up a curly-haired customer.
“You’ll have to tell me what Maddie says. I think she’s going to love the white jasmine,” Veronica tells the woman, while I do my damnedest to listen rather than gawk. I’m the boss—eavesdropping is acceptable, but staring is not.
With a smile, the woman takes the massive bouquet from Veronica. “And to think I was going to get her red roses. Pfft. But these are hilarious. I mean, after popping out three babies, what could be better?”
That’s odd. I stop my work on the bike, putting my glasses in my pocket then setting my tools down on the counter. Daisies often symbolize new beginnings, as well as innocence. I’m not sure how Veronica jumped to jasmine as the right gift for Maddie.
Oh, shit. What if Veronica’s flower radar is out of whack? Did I hire her because I felt guilty for wanting her? Goddamn my faulty judgment.
The customer draws the bouquet to her nose and sniffs it. “Thanks . . . a bunch.”
Veronica smiles, then waves goodbye to the woman as she leaves.
Since Zara’s intensely discussing the merits of electric bikes with a hipster, I grab the chance to touch base with my new employee, and head to the flower side of the shop. I gesture to the front door, swinging shut behind the customer. “So, she got jasmine for a friend who had a kid? Instead of daisies?”
With a laugh, Veronica shakes her head. “Her friend just got her tubes tied.”
I frown. “And she’s giving her flowers?”
Veronica gives me a silly boy look. “Don’t you know flowers are great for any occasion?” she asks sweetly.
Damn. She’s right, and I am off my game. “Well, sure. That’s the message we want to promote,” I say, like yup, that’s what I meant to say .
“And Tina wanted to bring Maddie something irreverent, to celebrate this end of an era and the start of a new one. But she couldn’t find the right flowers online.”
I like the sound of that. “Go on,” I say.
“I suggested jasmine because they symbolize . . . desire .” Veronica gives a little shrug, just east of coy, just north of naughty. “So she wrote on the card: Congrats, Maddie! You can get it on all the time now . Cute, isn’t it?”
“Very cute,” I say evenly, so I don’t reveal that my store manager’s advice is gold, and, fuck, now I’m thinking about getting it on all the time with Veronica. Maybe I’m the one who needs daisies to restore my innocence. My mind just dropped to gutter levels. “So, how’s your second day going so far?”
There. That’s so boss-like, not perv-like.
“It’s great,” she says, but with a touch of forced cheer and I get it. The first few days in a new job can be tough.
“Let me know what I can do. If you need anything. Iris is the flower genius, but I’ve learned tons from her, and I’m happy to help. Honestly, the jasmine was a stroke of genius,” I say, hoping to give her a boost of confidence.
She’s quiet for a few seconds, but with her brow furrowed, her brain is busy. “Actually, I wanted to bring this up during the interview, but I was a little distracted,” she says, looking me square in the eyes.
I was distracted too, but lingering on that moment when fate-flipped-us-the-bird isn’t wise. “We can talk now,” I say helpfully.
“Because, you know, Friday was a little awkward,” she adds, then gives me a rueful smile, a concession to the weirdness of our situation.
It was beyond awkward , I want to shout. We texted about the importance of daily tongue-rolling, for fuck’s sake. What’s done is done though. “And here we are, working together,” I say, pretending things aren’t weird.
But what else is there for me to do? Nada.
“I wanted to share some of my ideas for how to market the shop,” she offers. “Would you be open to hearing them?”
Hell yes. That’s more than I expected from a new hire. “I’d love to,” I say, but then the bell above the door dings, and a new customer comes in.
“Raincheck?” she asks.
“It’s a date,” I say before I think the better of it.
Don’t say date again, you dipshit .
Especially since Veronica squints, clearly flustered by my faux pas. Well, better she should squint than cringe.
And on that put-my-foot-in-my-mouth note, I sequester myself in my office with Trudy for the rest of the afternoon.
I don’t get another chance to chat with her until the end of the day. Zara’s finishing a tune-up, so I join Veronica as she sweeps flower clippings on the floor.
“So, about those ideas,” I say, diving straight into business, just business.
She sets down the broom and dustpan, then points to the front of the store. “That cute chalkboard outside? I think we can mix it up each day with a new saying, and a reason to buy flowers, and post it on your social. You have a decent Instagram presence, but you could post more regularly. Here’s my idea. You know how the Internet celebrates everything with a national day?”
“Like National Sandwich Day?”
Blinking, she straightens her shoulders like she’s been caught daydreaming in class, then squeaks out: “Sandwiches?”
“Surely you’ve heard of them. Those delicious things where bread is a wrapper for other food,” I say.
“Ah, yes. Thank you,” she says, deadpan.
“And . . . National Sandwich Day is only one of my favorite days of the year. It’s not yours?” I ask playfully.
“I’m not a fan of sandwiches,” she says, then shrugs, all no big deal style.
I exaggerate shock, dropping my jaw, then rubbing my ear. “I must have heard wrong. How could anyone dislike sandwiches?”
“It happens,” she says quickly, dismissing the topic. Maybe she had a bad experience with a sandwich. “But what are your other favorite days? Inquiring minds want to know.” She sounds fascinated, as if she’s wanted to discuss this with me for ages. Or maybe she’s just super keen not to discuss sandwiches.
But my answer is National Sixty-Nine Day. Is that a day of celebration? If not, it should be. “National Pajama Day,” I offer, tossing out something chaste. Or chaste-ish.
Veronica’s pretty green eyes twinkle. “Then how about this? For each day, we come up with a fun new saying about why you need flowers. Like this: It’s National Wear Your PJs to Work Day. Give your boss some pansies to get a PJ pass. ”
“I like it,” I say, stoked by her idea. “Can you do that tomorrow?”
She holds up a finger to make a point. “I can, but tomorrow is National Burrito Day, and that’s not so flower-able. But there’s no reason we can’t make up national days too,” she says, a little devilishly. “I mean, who’s in charge of making up national days, anyway?”
“I applied for the position but didn’t get it,” I say.
She laughs. “Same here! But I bet we’d have been great at that job,” she says.
Oh sweetheart, I bet we’d have been great at lots of jobs.
“If I were in charge of the national days,” she goes on, “I’d deem tomorrow . . . National Get Out of Bed Day. And we can write: Did you brush your teeth today and put on pants this morning? Then celebrate with some flowers. ”
“I’m glad you didn’t get the National Day gig, Veronica. Because that’s a good one. Want to use it tomorrow?”
She’s vibrating with energy. “Iris left me some of the pastel chalks. I could write it up on the chalkboard now, and we’ll post a pic overnight. See if it gets some traction in the early morning when people check Insta before they even roll out of bed.”
Smarts and sex appeal. Dating isn’t a game of Frogger. It’s Russian Roulette.
“That sounds perfect,” I say.
Grabbing the chalk and an eraser, she pops outside and tackles her project. When she’s done, she snaps a pic as the sun sets behind her.
She comes back in and stands next to me, showing me the shot on her phone. It’s a good picture, but I catch the scent of her hair, and I should definitely study the picture longer since I’m dying to know what that fragrance is . . .
Picking out scents in this shop calls for the nose of a sommelier, but I’ve got one, and pretty sure that’s not Bikes and Blooms flowers that I’m smelling.
It’s . . . orange blossom.
Just a faint trace of it from Veronica’s hair. Or maybe on her neck. Or her skin.
Stop!
I clear my throat, inch away from the tempting scent. “Great shot. Want to send it to me and I can post it?”
“I can do it now if you want. I mean, I’m not that dangerous on the Internet,” she says, and the corner of her lips twitch. There’s a hidden meaning there, but I’m busy trying to erase orange blossom from my memory bank.
After she sends me the pic, I give her my phone for posting but stay next to her. I learned a lesson or two from Callie, and I’m not about to hand over the keys to the social kingdom to just anyone yet.
“And tomorrow there’ll be a line around the block,” she says as she hands me back my phone.
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say.
A few minutes later, she leaves, then Zara takes off after her.
Whew. I lock the door once more, then I get as far away from the flowers as I can, working on a custom design for a while, letting bike grease fill my nostrils until I can’t smell oranges anymore.
I work until my phone pings at eight, reminding me I’m meeting my brother for a beer. After I take off my glasses, I wash up, and Trudy and I head out into the warm June night.
When I spot Bryan at an outside table at The Lucky Spot, he waggles a bottle my way. “I ordered for you. Figured you’d want to reward yourself for making it through your first few days. You better have been on good behavior,” he says, since he knows the story. I caught him up to speed when we went for a ride on the High Line over the weekend.
I take the cold beer and tip the neck to his. “Today was National I Was a Good Boy Day.”
He gives me a curious look, then makes a rolling gesture with his hand. I give him the deets on Veronica’s National Day plan.
Laughing, he shakes his head. “Good luck, buddy. She sounds sharp, and I already know you like her yoga pants.”
I hang my head. “Too fucking much.”
“I guess every day at work now will be Good Boy Day,” he says.
“Every. Single. Day.”
On that note, I take a pull of my beer and buckle in. It’s going to be a long, hot summer.
After we grab some grub, and chat about Bryan’s new business plans, we say goodnight and go our separate ways.
When I reach my block, I’m determined to keep my eyes on the sidewalk the entire way to my building, my focus on my dog, not my neighbor’s building. I do not look up just in case Veronica’s standing on her balcony again.
Jesus, man. This isn’t Romeo and Juliet .
I don’t even like Shakespeare. I mean, I get that he’s a wordsmith and all, but in high school, I could not for the life of me figure out all those thou , thines, and thys . Science and fixing things were more my speed and still are.
But now that I’m near her building, I find myself glancing up in spite of myself. One look won’t hurt, will it? Nope.
This isn’t my high school Shakespeare at all.
It’s more like Naughty Juliet, since Veronica’s standing by the balcony, eyes closed, a low-cut tank top hugging her breasts. She’s talking into her phone, leaning against the railing and . . . hold on. Are those sleep shorts?
Is it National Pajama Night and no one told me?
Licking my lips, I try to look away, but her mouth is moving, and I swear for a few seconds, I can make out the shape of words.
Words like tell me what you want .
No idea what she’s saying, but she goes through some kind of list. One, two, three, four, five.
Then, Trudy jerks her gaze to a nearby tree and barks at a scampering squirrel.
Veronica’s eyes fly open and meet mine.
Busted.