Sexy Man Apron #2
Elbows on the counter, Seamus didn’t blink.
Holding my ground, I refused to break the silence.
I imagined he had grown used to Patrick filling the air while he remained quiet.
I didn’t need to speak to get my point across.
We entered a stalemate, and I was determined to win.
Was it a petty game? Sort of. I wanted to see if I could get him to—
“You’re welcome.” He took the bottle, admiring the label. “Julie will never let me live this down.”
She might have wanted the sale, but she didn’t need to coerce.
Knowing his tastes, she could tailor every recommendation.
It was only possible with the closeness of a frequent patron.
The similarity between that and Firefly wasn’t lost on me.
Blurting out my dinner with Mum and Nick had led to the perfect wine.
Did they run to their phones to tell the town the tattooed guy was sweet on a flatlander? Perhaps.
I couldn’t change how Firefly acted, but I could change my response.
“Dammit,” I muttered.
Seamus remained silent. Before meeting him, I’d have considered myself the king of the ‘strong silent types.’ I had been dethroned.
Those eyes didn’t miss a beat, but instead of verbalizing, he held still.
I could see why Patrick found him alluring.
He made space, and I suspected everybody in his presence took his silence as an invitation to spill their guts.
“An unsettling epiphany,” I said with a slight smile.
He nodded. “Good. Now stop ignoring it.”
I frowned. How many times would he give me pithy suggestions that rocked my world? I thought Logan should get rid of the tools and put up a sign, “Life advice.” They’d make a killing.
“I’m trying,” I admitted.
He went back to the bottle.
“You’ll have to join us for a drink.”
From the first time we talked, I knew he was unlike the rest of Firefly.
Much like his house, he sat on the fringes of town.
Though I remember how fast he roped me into helping the gremlins.
Seamus might not be like the others, but he participated in the mayhem lying underneath the charm of Firefly.
“How do you do it?” I needed an answer. “Avoid the drama?”
He set the whisky behind the counter, out of sight.
Without saying a word, he leaned on the counter, hands clasped together.
Sagely wisdom brewed as he chewed on his top lip.
After our last dinner party, I wasn’t sure I’d get a second invite.
I assumed Seamus didn’t allow drama into his life, but then again, I don’t think it would have bothered him in the least.
“Get over yourself.”
Uh. Ouch.
“Not what I was expecting.”
“You grew up. So did everybody else.” His eyes met mine, burrowing a hole into my soul. “But they’re not the ones trapped in the past.”
Seamus had cocked his rifle and fired. Every word hit its mark, leaving a sharp sting in my chest. He hadn’t held back, and yet, the timber of his voice held no malice. He didn’t mince his words, and if he was going to expend them like ammo, he made sure he had the shot.
“I’d hate to see what you’d say to somebody you didn’t like.”
“Who says I like you?” His lip turned up enough to know it was a joke. “Pops wouldn’t like to see you wallowing.”
Great. Not only did he hit me below the belt, but he also followed the blow with guilt.
After flipping through the scrapbook, I felt I owed Pop.
It wasn’t a burden I carried, more like an ethos.
He had gone above and beyond to remain connected even while he gave me space.
I didn’t want to regret missing opportunities.
Mum wouldn’t need a scrapbook of distant observations.
We had time to make our own. Same for Nick. For Seamus. For Firefly.
“You’re right.”
“Text Patrick and say that.”
I couldn’t remain lost, drifting in space.
The armor I had put in place had left me isolated, and it was time to make some changes.
I kept thinking that Firefly hadn’t changed.
But a drag queen, tattooed hipster, and recluse daddy bear said otherwise.
Maybe the town had grown up, and I refused to see it.
It didn’t change everything, but perhaps places changed as much as the people who lived there.
I’d need to mull it over.
“I’ll tell him when I come over.”
He nodded. “Now get out of here. You’re making the customers nervous.”
I turned around, looking at an empty store. I shot him a dirty look.
“Subtle.” It dripped with sarcasm.
“Not subtle involves a rifle.”
I didn’t doubt him. With a chin nod, I headed out of the store.
With the epiphanies and goodwill mounting, I decided to test my limits and slide into one more store.
Flowers were the least I could do after the torment I put my mother through.
As soon as I slipped inside, the scent of flowers invaded my senses.
They reminded me of the forest, but sweeter.
“Charles?”
The woman behind the counter wore a long sundress covered in sunflowers.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say she were a nymph hiding amongst the colorful flowers.
I tried to de-age her, but I couldn’t place the face.
Of course, she recognized me, and I’m sure that came with all the knowledge of my family since they first moved here.
I couldn’t change their curiosity, but I could change how I responded.
For now, I waited to see how it’d turn out.
“Marigold,” she held out her hand. As I shook, I felt like a troll or ogre by comparison. Her hand lingered as her eyes scanned me up and down. When she let go, her face almost soured, as if I had upset her. “You don’t like flowers.”
I hadn’t really thought about it before. “More of a tree guy.”
She leaned back, not convinced by my answer. “So, you’re here for somebody else.”
I had walked blindly into the trap. My high from earlier had left me disoriented. If I said no, I’d come off defensive. If I said yes, it’d be fodder for the gossipers. I threw caution to the wind; at least she hadn’t flinched and commented on my roughing up somebody in town.
“It’s for Mum.”
“Carnations.” Did she know the favorite flower of every person in town? “She loves multi-colored carnations. Heavy on the blue.” Of course, Marigold knew. Her thin lips turned up in a smile, but her eyes continued reading me. “And?”
“And?”
“For anybody else?”
“Just tell her.” I jolted upright at the mysterious voice. I turned to see a man in a rocking chair hiding among the potted plants. He had a book open, moving back and forth as he turned the page. “She’ll guess eventually.”
“It’s a boy, Peter,” she said. Leaning in, she whispered, “Am I right?”
I couldn’t tell if she guessed because she had a sixth sense, or if it had been an article in the town gazette. I held hands with Nick in public, so there was no way our flirtation had gone unnoticed. Lacie had probably told the story like an urban legend.
“It’s a boy,” I mumbled.
“It’s a boy!”
“Told you, son.” He didn’t look up from his book. “In Firefly, it’s always a boy.”
Marigold clapped her hands as if she had won a prize.
As much as I wanted to be on the defense and hide with cryptic statements, the joy on her face made it worth sharing a little secret.
That’s how it started. The false sense of security led to sharing, and before I knew it, the entire town knew my business.
Would it be so bad if they knew I chased a cute guy?
“What about a bouquet of blue carnations?” Her eyebrows wiggled up and down. “With a single rose in the middle? Then you can whip it out—the rose, I mean—and say something romantic?”
I wouldn’t consider myself the romantic type. Though as I played out the scene in my head, I could only imagine Mum’s surprise at the flowers. Then with a skillful hand, I pluck out the rose and turn to Nick. Mum would swoon, Nick would blush, and then we’d kick off dinner. I didn’t hate the idea.
“You’ll leave them speechless.” She spun about. “Follow me.”
As I waded into the shop, it was almost as if I were walking into the woods. I thought of towering trees and pine needles layering my path. Here, there were luscious plants in massive pots and small trees yet to find a home. I had no doubt Marigold had a little woodland nymph in her blood.
“You remind me of him.” She opened the refrigerator doors and pulled out pots with colored carnations. “Every time your father came back from the woods, he’d buy your mom flowers.”
I hadn’t thought about it before, but she was right. Some days there’d be a vase stuffed with flowers, and others, a single carnation. I always assumed Mum had bought them to decorate the house. His determination to continuously woo Mum made me smile. He had been a romantic in his own right.
“Now.” She dropped the carnations on a massive wooden table. “While I work, I want to hear all about this boy.”
We locked eyes.
I flexed my fingers as my palms turned sweaty. My chest tightened as I cleared my throat, trying to buy time. Marigold hadn’t gone fishing for tidbits to share; she had asked the big question, putting it front and center. I could brush it off and retreat to the comfort of semi-anonymity or—
“He’s a flatlander,” I blurted out.
“They can’t all be perfect,” she said with a smirk. “How’d you meet?”
I could run away or toward.
I reached for a stool and took a seat next to the table.
Marigold plucked flowers from the bucket, gathering them on a sheet of parchment paper.
It took a moment before I realized I could breathe.
The suffocation of small-town curiosity had dwindled.
This time, her question sounded like genuine curiosity, not as if she were mining for social currency.
“It started with Moxie…”