Chapter Eighteen Friends Don’t Fall in Love
Chapter Eighteen
Friends Don’t Fall in Love
Regan is fiddling with the new online ordering system for the shop while I work beside her, pulling together the day’s floral
arrangements that we need to send out. Neither of us is saying it, but it’s true that the ordering upgrades and higher-quality
flowers are a near-direct result of Nikki still regularly sending flowers back to LA. Not to mention the fact that a lot of
the people she’s sent them to have taken it upon themselves to turn into repeat customers.
In Bloom is firmly in the black in a way it hasn’t been for decades.
Thankfully, Nikki’s taken to explaining who each floral arrangement is heading to lately. It’s not that I’m jealous or nosy
or anything, it’s just that—since we’ve fully embraced the “benefits” side of our friends-with-benefits arrangement over the
last few weeks—I’ve become . . . more curious. It’s only natural to wonder about them, especially with the notes we put on
the early ones.
Things have been pretty steady lately. Nikki and I have now had the serious conversations about health history and been freshly tested (better late than never, I guess?).
She assures me she’s not screwing around with anyone else, and neither am I.
We’re on the same page. We scratch our itches together or not at all—and that applies even when she’s had to travel a few times.
Maybe that shouldn’t bring me as much relief as it does, considering our current status, which is: a complete and utter failure
of banging each other out of our systems, and an even worse job at staying “platonic.” But it does.
I don’t know why I ever thought that would work. It’s not like all we do is bang, although that is definitely one of our favorite
pastimes. We’re still teasing apart stuff from our time on the show when we’re not tangling tongues or getting off.
Nikki continues to sidestep the biggest land mines or delete them from the manuscript entirely, though. Like last night when
I went over, she gave me a chapter about when we moved into that big, beautiful apartment and she spilled hot pink paint all
over the new marble floors while trying to surprise me with an accent wall. Like yes, that did happen that year, but I think
the bigger issue was that she was drunk when she did it.
I pressed her a little on that before she asked me to stop. She said something like “she would add that in later when she
does the rest” or whatever, and I’m not sure how to feel about that. A part of me is glad I don’t have to relive all of the
bad stuff while I’m buzzed out of my mind from a steady diet of good sex and a solid profit margin on the flower shop books
for the first time, but . . . I don’t know. Shouldn’t the memoir be more than just a highlight reel?
Still, I can’t deny it’s been nice getting to know her again and learning all the little things that have changed about her—she really does drink oat milk, she reads a lot more, and, most surprisingly, she’d rather talk than argue when one of us is feeling down or annoyed or whatever.
Things are complicated, sure . . . but nice? I don’t know. I mean, complicated is par for the course with us. I’m trying to
embrace the fact that this reboot version of “complicated” is much more even and healthy than the stinging, brutal one we
experienced on our first go-round.
“Three more LA orders,” Regan says, shoving her shaggy hair out of her eyes and hitting print. She tears the orders out of
the new ticket printer she bought last week and lines them up next to me. I’m currently making a massive orchid display for
the local boaters association to raffle off for their silent auction. It’s grander than most of my local orders, and I got
a little thrill about pulling it together. It’s nice working on something big again. We’ve had such an influx of smaller,
shippable orders lately that this feels like a treat.
“It’s wild how fast they keep coming in now that you can order online,” she says. “Is everyone in LA allergic to calling or
something?”
“Likely so, unless you’re an agent.” I laugh, adjusting some of the flowers in front of me.
“Well, you would know,” she says, elbowing me.
Before I can reply that those days are long gone, Nikki walks in carrying a drink tray with four coffees on it. I raise an
eyebrow as she sets it in front of me and studies the labels.
“Shouldn’t you be at the airport?” I ask, because she definitely informed me last night (in between two of the best orgasms I’ve ever had and an appearance by our “very optimistic” favorite toy) that she had to head back to LA for a full week this time to handle some business.
I’ve been trying to pretend that the thought of not seeing her for so long doesn’t have me as twisted up as it really does—anytime
she’s left lately it’s been barely overnight, two days at most. Judging by the fact that she’s here now, I suspect I’m not
hiding my concerns as well as I thought. It’s not that I think something is going to happen when she leaves, it’s just . . .
that I’m worried something will happen when she leaves.
Trust takes time to rebuild, friends or not.
Nikki shrugs. “I wanted to grab some coffee for the ride and thought I would hook you all up while I was there.
“This one’s yours,” she says, sliding a cup into my hand. She sets another one beside herself, and then studies the label
on the third. “Do you really use five pumps of caramel?” she asks, sliding it over to Regan, who looks confused.
“How do you know that?”
“I asked the barista what you’ve been getting lately. I noticed it wasn’t black with two sugars anymore.” Nikki flicks her
eyes to mine. “You said Johnny was off today, right? I figured he might be here too.”
“He is,” Johnny says, coming out of the back room, where Regan had put him to work building a new storage shelf. They drove
an hour to Ikea yesterday to get it. With all the increased orders, we needed more places to store the various shipping materials
and basic floral supplies we’re going through so fast.
Johnny crosses his arms, looking down at Nikki. I think he’s trying to look intimidating, but she just smiles.
“Iced decaf, soy milk, no sugar, right?” she asks, gesturing to the cup in front of her.
I look between them, silently praying he accepts the peace offering. They’ve been around each other a few times since that
fateful night, but the reception has always been icier than the coffee sitting untouched beside me.
Johnny has been polite, just like we asked, and he did apologize for what he said that night, but I can’t help but wonder
if his apology was more for my and Regan’s sake and not because he actually was ready to have a fresh start with Nikki. “Johnny
McFarlane, Professional Grudge Holder”—he should put it on his business cards. Although the truth is, maybe if I’d held on
to mine a little longer, I wouldn’t be as bummed as I’m feeling right now about her leaving.
“Since when do baristas give out personal information? Doesn’t that violate HIPAA or something?”
“It’s coffee, not medical care, dumbass,” Regan says, slapping him on his pec as she passes by to check out his progress on
the shelf.
He raises an eyebrow in Nikki’s direction. “How do I know it’s not poisoned?”
“If it is, it wasn’t by me,” Nikki says, laughing. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised if other people were also trying to—”
“Nikki!” I shriek, cutting her off before she can finish the rest of that sentence.
Johnny grins, seemingly pleased to see that she wouldn’t immediately back down. Maybe he enjoys their banter more than I realized. It did seem like they were enjoying ribbing on each other the other night, when I had everybody over to watch a hockey game.
He steps forward and scoops up his coffee and straw before tactically retreating into the back room with Regan. “Thanks,”
he calls out, waving to her without turning around. “If I die from this, I’m going to kill you, though.”
“Didn’t poison it!” she calls after him before turning back to me.
A part of me thinks he’s trying to give us privacy, but another, bigger part is wondering if he’s jumping at the chance to
get some alone time in the back room with Regan without having to worry about me interrupting. They’ve knocked enough things
off the shelves back there while pretending to “clean up” that I—and half the town probably—have some serious suspicions about
what actually goes on between them these days when no one is looking. They need to get it together already. It’s long past
time for them to admit their feelings.
Pot meet kettle, I think, and then quickly shove that thought away.
We haven’t had to deal too much with people bothering us—Nikki is right, her lack of makeup does seem to work unsettlingly
well in terms of keeping her incognito. While it probably wouldn’t in LA or NYC or anyplace that people would expect a celebrity
to be lurking, so far no one in this sleepy town seems to be any wiser about the Oscar winner in their midst. We’d both like
to keep it that way.
“I think that went exceptionally well,” Nikki says. I raise an eyebrow but she just grins. “What? He took the coffee, didn’t
he? That makes us best friends in my book.”
“Riiiiight,” I say, checking the time on my phone and frowning. “As much as I love having you around, you better get going or you’ll miss your flight.”
“There are worse things,” she says, and then tilts her head. “Wait, did you just say you love having me around?”
She’s lucky she’s cute if she’s going to fish like that.
“Nikki . . .”
“Fine, fine, I’m going, I’m going. Dinner when I get back?”
“Dinner sounds perfect. My place or yours?”
She waggles her eyebrows and I laugh at the suggestive face she makes. I resist the urge to flick some of the cut stems that
litter the counter at her, pouting that she doesn’t seem to have any intention of kissing me before she leaves.
“We’ll figure out dinner later,” she says, grabbing a lily from the rack and leaning forward to slide it into my hair. “In