8. Mistress of Cheek
8
MISTRESS OF CHEEK
Veronica
My mom is calling me back, so I jump away from the text string and swipe up on FaceTime, smiling nervously. She’s the one I need to talk to, not that clever, thoroughly distracting man.
I’ve wanted to get to know him for a few months now, and at last, I am.
Finally, my crush is moving out of crush territory and into Maybe a Little More Land.
But first things first. I need Mom’s help. “Hey, Mama Valentine. Would you hire me if I came into your store like this?”
I give her a ta-da pose in my living room. I’m wearing a cute summery dress with a daisy pattern on yellow fabric. The flower faces are winking, so that feels perfect. A little sassy. I looked up Bikes and Blooms on social, and the shop has a fun and irreverent vibe, though it could use a touch more cheek in its online presence.
What do you know? I’m the mistress of cheek, and I plan to arrive at the interview armed and ready with new material for the store’s social media.
As Mom ties the strings on her green apron, she gives me a quick once-over. “I’d probably make the decision based on your knowledge of plants, soil, and sun, as well as your personality, but sure, the dress is cute.”
I huff. “Mom, I have all that. I’m just asking about the dress. Is it appropriate? You’re an employer and all. Is this okay to wear to a job interview? I’m not the best judge.”
“It’s adorable and professional,” she says thoughtfully, as she adds a bow in the middle of her apron. She’ll be opening her garden shop any minute now.
“Thank you,” I say, relieved. Someday, maybe even someday soon, I won’t need all these wardrobe affirmations, but today is not that day. “Just think, at last, I can use all that flower and plant knowledge you drilled into my head growing up.”
“Gee, hon. You make it sound so painful,” she says, but I was only joking. Mom’s ways of teaching were so much kinder than Dad’s.
“Lovingly drilled?” I tease, as she moves down a row of plants and bushes. She’s at her store in Wistful, Connecticut, the place she opened after spending years as a landscape architect designing gardens all over New England.
“I prefer to think of it as prepping you with useful skills for a zombie apocalypse,” she says.
“And I’m so grateful for that.” I carry the phone out to my deck, swinging the lens to show off the kale I’m nurturing. “That’s why I keep up my balcony garden. So I can trade herbs and kale during the end days. Poor Hazel though. She’ll be eaten first. No one will need a romance novelist then.”
“It’s a shame, but the zombies will probably enjoy her brain, so there’s that. And good luck today, sweetheart. You have a tasty brain too, and you can use it to impress the folks at the interview. I’m sure you’ll wow them with your knowledge and charm,” she says, and some days, she’s such a mom.
But that’s exactly why I called her. I’d never call my dad for advice. He’d tell me every error was my fault. I once said I could care less, and he made me write I couldn’t care less one hundred times before dinner. “Thanks, Mama V. I needed that,” I say.
After I hang up, I leash up my pooch for a quick walk around the hood. I’ve had a busy few days, life-hacking through joblessness Gen-Z style, posting freelance for hire signs all over the web.
So far, I’ve gotten nibbles on writing a training manual on keeping spiders as pets and editing a series of inspirational quotes on running, which I consider to be Satan’s exercise.
But I’m keeping the faith that there’s solid temporary work out there for me. Like this flower gig—the pay is decent, and the job is daily. It gives me time to stay off the radar and let the publishing world forget my faux pas.
As I walk down Eighth Avenue with my little dude sniffing the sidewalk, I click back to my texting app. Do I want to start up again with Mister Sexy Pants? Finding those earrings in the foyer—they were tacked up on the bulletin board with a note from the sweet lady in 2E who found them on the stoop—was an unexpected delight this morning.
The text exchange was the icing on the cake, and I can’t stop smiling. Come to think of it, chatting with him put me in a damn good mood pre-interview. Might as well keep it up.
But as I contemplate what to say next, my phone trills with a call from Bellamy.
My shoulders tighten. She rarely calls. What if it’s bad news? Like, the Internet figured out I’m the perpetrator and now all of kid lit has canceled me? This is the kind of week where birds poop on your head.
I answer right away, wary as hell. “Hi, Bellamy. Has anyone figured out who I am?” I ask quickly.
Bellamy was aware of my day job when she hired me. She’s also a good friend of my sister’s, and I trust her too, so she’s been briefed on what went down.
“Nope! No one seems to have connected the Mister Sexy Pants in your column and the one in your, well, your work email. Ergo, you’re still just the friendly neighborhood virgin , and no one’s the wiser to your Clark Kent identity.”
Yes! All the pooping pigeons in the city fly elsewhere. “Excellent. What can I do for you?” I ask.
“I’d normally email, but I figure when it involves money, a call is good,” she says.
“I like money,” I say as my pooch stops to whizz on a hydrant.
“And I like popular columns. So, we want to pay you a little extra since your column went viral. Readers are still having a blast speculating about who Mister Sexy Pants is,” she says, sounding amused, and my cheeks heat just hearing his secret name. Maybe it won’t be so secret much longer. “Some muse he’s a bookstore owner, like you said,” Bellamy continues as StudMuffin resumes his walk. “And they imagine he likes to read the dirty passages out loud to his lady. Others think he’s a baker who licks frosting off spoons in a most sensual fashion, and a few imagine he’s a carpenter, who sure knows how to hammer. But this is my favorite comment— I bet he’s a secret prince with a hidden library in his castle, but it’s a library that doubles as a sex dungeon so he can read to you then spank you with the hardcover .”
Damn. My Virgin Club readers have even dirtier minds than I do. “Sign me up. For all of those,” I say as I turn the corner onto a quieter block.
Bellamy laughs. “I know, right? Readers love the mystery. Never underestimate the value of speculation.”
I’ve been wondering too. Who is the man behind the texts? I never got his name the day I chatted with him over vanilla celebration cake. And I haven’t asked his name yet. Maybe because I didn’t want to break the spell of the flirting this morning. But for the longest time I’ve wondered who he is, and now I’m on the cusp of finding out.
It feels right.
Like it’s finally time.
After the interview, I’m definitely going to ask his name. He’s given me plenty of clues today that he’s interested, including his very obvious big dictionary remark.
Yup, if I get the job, I’m going to reward myself by asking him out. Bet he tastes better than cake. A date will be a delicious end to the week from hell.
“I’m glad they’re enjoying the column even more,” I say, giving my full focus to Bellamy rather than my post-interview plans.
“They are. And we can pay a little extra if you can answer some questions from readers. You can do it on Twitter or Instagram. Whatever works for you, but there are all sorts of questions on your column, so it might be fun to interact with readers. I think it’ll make the next one you write even more popular.”
She gives me the amount, and it’s coffee change, but I’ll happily take it. “I’d love to. And what do you want for the next column?”
“Readers like your fantasy columns the best. I would love another one like that. Top ten things you want to do in bed would probably light up the socials.”
It might light up my pants too. “I’m in,” I say as I finish the call.
Then, I take my boy home and say goodbye to my pets.
It’s time for the interview.
As I sail downstairs, I remind myself to rein in my sarcasm, my love of naughty puns, and, hmm, well now, anything about the ten things I want to do in bed.
Along the way to the flower shop, I review my knowledge of tulips, lilies, peonies, then all the upcoming special occasions that call for flowers, then my ideas for catchy ways to promote florals as the perfect gift.
But as I head down Sixth Avenue, I feel a little unfinished. Maybe it’s because of my last text with the guy who saved my lucky earrings.
I had to jump, and I might have left him hanging. That’s not good if I plan to ask him out as my reward.
I’ll just send one more quick message, maybe even tease at the whole what’s your name thing. I click open the thread and type.
Veronica: By the way, now that I’ve learned you have jewelry-fixing skills, I think I’ll call you Sir Good With His Hands.
But that’s a little long for a name in my text app, so I decide to call him . . . well, him . He’s the OG crush, after all, so it works.
As I turn onto Seventh Avenue, a text hits my phone.
Him: Was Sir Great With His Hands taken?
Veronica: ’Fraid so. You could be Sir Best With His Hands, but it just doesn’t roll off the tongue the same way.
Him: Rolling off the tongue is important.
Gah. This is going so well. I can’t wait to ask him out.
Veronica: It’s truly a vital skill.
Him: One that must be practiced . . . daily.
I glance around the street like someone might see me blushing from the naughtiness on my phone. I want to fan myself, but maybe I shouldn’t risk turning up the temperature before I interview for a job. Reluctantly, I shift gears.
Veronica: By the way, I’m wearing the earrings. I am feeling all the good luck vibes.
Him: Good. I hope your appointment goes well.
I wrack my brain for a response as I pass a cute coffee shop, but before I can compose one, three dots appear on the screen. Oh! He’s a double texter. I might swoon right now.
Him: Incidentally, you have a nickname too.
Veronica: Don’t keep it to yourself. Sharing is caring.
Him: It’s not earth-shatteringly original, but it is apropos. Miss Cute Devil Butt
I groan, but I’m laughing too as I write back.
Veronica: I will never live that down.
Him: Nor should you. Since there’s no way I could ever forget the sight of your butt in those undies. It made my Monday.
I’m giddy as I near my destination. I’m officially sure Trudy’s owner is into me too.
Veronica: You have to stop making me blush immediately. I have to do this job interview now, and I can’t be thinking of The Day I Flashed Sir Greatest With His Hands.
Him: Greatest! I am the greatest and I can prove it! Let me know how your meeting goes. Can’t wait to hear.
And yup . . . it’s official. He wants to hear from me again, and he is indeed going to.
But I’ve turned onto the Bikes and Blooms block now, so I tuck my phone away. Two shops away, I stop in front of a chichi boutique and check my reflection.
All systems are go, so I walk a few more feet, open the green door to Bikes and Blooms, and stride inside, greeted by the fresh, sumptuous smell of flowers and bike grease.
Weirdly, the combo works.
The shop is mostly quiet, but I spot a pretty Black woman whose pregnant belly is the size of a house. She’s chatting with a customer about sunflowers, so I busy myself, checking out the gift cards.
After the woman rings up the flowers, she works her way around the counter and comes up to me.
“You must be Veronica?” she asks.
“Veronica Valentine. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Iris,” I say, then extend my hand.
She shakes my hand and her head. “Veronica Valentine. That is not fair.”
I messed up already? “What’s not fair?” I ask nervously.
“I want your name,” she says.
I laugh, relieved. “My parents were very good to me in the naming department,” I say. “And you have a perfect name for a florist. Were you meant to be a florist, or did you pick your name?”
“I picked it. This was my dream—to open a flower shop. My best friend runs the business, and he wanted to start a bike shop, but I suggested flowers too, and he liked the idea. So he turned it into bikes and flowers so we could both have jobs.”
“He sounds like a prince,” I say, wondering if maybe he put the baby in her belly, friends-to-lovers style. I peer around the trendy space, admiring the lush green walls on the flower side, then the sky-blue ones on the bike half. A mint-green cruiser bike sits in between the two; the bike’s basket filled with flowers. “I think the whole combo shop is perfect. It appeals to our go, go, go mentality, but it’s got a touch of whimsy to it.”
Iris’s eyes twinkle like I said the perfect thing. “Yes, that’s exactly the vibe we want to hit.” She nods to the counter. “Let’s chat more about your background, Veronica.”
We talk at the counter while she tends to the occasional customer. In between, I answer her questions and tell her about my mother’s work in gardens and how I grew up surrounded by flowers and plants.
“You graduated with a degree in English lit, though? And now, you’re looking for a new job after working in publishing?” She’s curious, but not cutting.
Still, an unpleasant knot tightens in my gut. I don’t want to delve into my job history if I don’t have to. “Yes, I’m looking into new things,” I say.
“Fair enough,” she says, and I’m glad she seems satisfied with that. “You know this is a temporary position for the summer? I’ll return in three months.” She pats her belly for emphasis.
“Which makes it perfect,” I say, “since I have plans for the fall.”
The more I say that, the more I’ll believe it.
“Well, this seems almost too good to be true. I’ve been trying to find a replacement for some time,” Iris says, with new excitement.
I can feel the offer coming when she swings her gaze to the door that leads to the back. “I think you’d be terrific, though I know Milo wants to meet you first. He’s the owner,” she explains.
“Wonderful,” I say, with a smile fueled by fresh hope.
I hear the scritch of paws, then a hopeful whine. Seconds later, a brown and tan Min-Pin scurries around the corner through the flowers, beelining for me.
That dog is familiar.
That’s . . .
“Trudy!” I call out and bend to the critter.
She runs straight to me like we’re old friends, hopping up on her back legs and giving me kisses.
“You know Trudy?” Iris asks, delighted but curious.
Wait. Hold on. Why is Sir Great With His Hands’ dog here?
When I untangle myself from Trudy and stand, I come face-to-face with the guy I want to date tonight.
How is this possible? Am I the butt of every joke in the city?
But nobody is laughing, least of all me.