—5— Wyatt
Wyatt
He bought the wrong flower.
For the wrong reason.
And placed it in exactly the right window.
Those ugly blinds are raised up to make room for the orchid. It isn’t quite perfectly placed, but it’s there to make the house not look like a monster moved in.
Of course he’d pick an orchid. Fragile. Dramatic. Impossible to plant outside, yet still somehow my problem.
Still just as in my face as he is.
And when I’m sitting at the dining room table at 1 AM, a tiny dim light hanging overhead, rest of the house dark, even the front porch light off, tapping away on my laptop, it isn’t Mr. Bellamy’s face that keeps appearing in my thoughts.
It’s Diego’s.
His lopsided lips.
His subtle squint of irritation.
How all of his hatred of the world lives in his biceps when he crosses his arms, puffing them up like balloons.
That guy always talk to you like that?
I keep typing, not thinking of Diego.
You know he was an asshole, right?
I take a sip of water, then set the glass down too hard.
He’s taking advantage of you.
I’m out of the chair and at the window, glaring across the yard at my former neighbors’ house. It’s dark. Garage door closed. Even with no lights on, the nearest streetlamp casts an eerie bluish glow over the orchid in the window.
Well, he hasn’t killed it yet.
That’s a good sign.
I can’t help wonder how Lottie and Marcos can be one kind of way, and their nephew can be another entirely.
I don’t see a speck of Lottie in him. I see Marcos’s handsomeness, annoyingly.
And his build, too, maybe. I never knew Marcos’s brother—Diego’s dad—who always remained a mystery and of whom Lottie and Marcos rarely ever spoke of themselves.
I’m surprised I never wondered why until now.
Is there bad blood between their families I don’t know about?
I wonder if I should call Lottie up. See how she and Marcos are doing. Tell them Diego’s looking after the house fine. That he’s got it under control. That there’s nothing to worry about.
Then beg them to come back.
On my hands and knees, if I must.
No sooner than the thought comes that I’m standing right by Diego again in my shop.
Him staring me down. Orchid still in his grip, even though I’m pretty sure I put it back on the shelf.
The sharpness in his eyes that could slice my resolve in half.
I could even feel the breath from his flared nostrils on my cheek.
I’m ashamed to admit the proximity of our faces excited me.
And scared me a little.
It’s been a long time since a guy has stood that close to me.
In my space.
In my oxygen.
I need to get him out of my fucking head.
I’m not sure what does it exactly—the sight of the orchid, the unusual peace and quiet tonight, Diego’s annoying words—but I’m back at the laptop, and I scrap the new quote I’ve been working on tediously all night.
Instead, I send Mr. Bellamy three options.
First: my original premium design at the price already quoted, but I throw in extra greenery and waive my setup fee.
Second option: 15% cheaper, but with smaller arrangements and fewer premium stems. Third: budget-conscious new design using seasonal flowers that still accommodate his desired color scheme at a lower cost.
Fair options. Not unreasonable.
And I’m not doing this because Diego was right. I’m doing this because the math is right.
I’m running a business.
My business.
I click send, feeling satisfied. Then close the laptop. Lean back in the chair. And let myself smile for once, despite the sleepiness in my eyes and the crick in my neck. I don’t even bother glancing out the window again before putting myself to bed at last.
Diego doesn’t rev his engine in the morning.
I sleep in until 8.
A serious luxury on a Thursday.
I enjoy a few customers today between my in-store chores of trimming stems, usual watering and upkeep, as well as arranging a pickup order for Robby who should be by around five.
It’s still the morning when I wrap a cute arrangement in paper, tie with twine, then smile as I hand it to Mr. Mitch Arnold, who hopes the flowers will make Ms. Bethie Davis smile again—it’s for some reason he didn’t disclose and I wouldn’t pry out of him.
After a nurse from the clinic picks out sympathy flowers for her aunt, I spend half an hour helping Mrs. Harding choose between roses or lilies for an apology she may or may not have earned after a “tiny recent disagreement” with her mother-in-law Nancy.
“I promise we’re getting better,” she tells me, like I know all her business and am keeping tabs, “and argue much less often now, but thank goodness Cole and Noah came by for dinner a minute later, because I was not about to hold back.” No further questions, your Honor.
After waving goodbye to Mrs. Baker, who just stopped in for a chat on her way to Patsy’s for lunch, I slip behind the counter and wake up the computer to check my email.
No reply from Mr. Bellamy yet, which I choose to interpret as professional respect.
And not the calm before a khaki-colored storm.
I lock up the shop around 2 in the afternoon to take a break—which is obviously a joke, as I always run errands on my so-called breaks—and head toward the bank with three deposit slips and a caffeine headache.
The fastest route takes me past Whitaker Auto.
I stop in my tracks when I spot a set of muscular legs popping out from underneath a car in the main garage.
Spread apart way too far to be decent.
Inviting my eyes right in between them.
The material of his blue mechanic pants tighten on his thighs, bunching up as he works, doing all kinds of things.
His boots go one way. Then the other.
Legs never closing.
He grunts, deeply and audibly, even from all the way out here, from the street, where I can hear it like we’re sharing a bedroom.
And then suddenly we are.
His powerful legs wrapped around me.
Grunting.
In my ear.
With all his throat and all his chest.
Is he fucking that car? Or is that car fucking him?
Then he slides out from underneath, revealing himself.
White drenched tank top. Smears of black grease over his chest and up his arms like war paint.
And when he lifts the back of his wrist to wipe off sweat, he draws another streak right over his forehead.
He doesn’t even know. It’d be almost cute if it weren’t for the dark, ferocious hunger in his eyes. Or is that just me projecting?
He turns to the street. Squints in my direction, sun in his eyes.
Diego squinting.
At me.
Fuck.
I’m already back to walking like I never stopped, saw nothing, pleading the fifth. Trip over something in the pavement. Correct myself before eating it. Walk along like that didn’t happen either.
I’m so fidgety at the bank, it’s like I just stuck my finger in a light socket. “I’m totally fine,” I assure the sweet-eyed teller. They didn’t ask me anything.
I take a different route back from the bank to my store.
For obvious reasons.
Why were his legs spread apart so much like that?
Who does that?
Now it’s all I’m thinking about.
While absentmindedly squirting water at a bushel of pansies. Way too much water. Staring right through these poor, innocent, overwatered pansies like there’s another set of hunky human legs protruding from between them.
Taking my mind to places it’s not gone in way too long.
Then him sitting up. Greasy tank top. Sweat.
Wiping his forehead.
Eyes finding mine through all that sexiness.
Smoldering me.
My computer dings, causing my next spray to go right at my face. Blinking it away, I hurry behind the counter.
Mr. Bellamy’s response: “Thanks. But I think we can work out something better. Let’s talk. Grant.”
In other words: screw your options, I’ll still get my way.
But with a smile.
I reach for the phone, deciding I do indeed have words for Mr. Grant Bellamy.
Then I retract my hand.
Then reach again.
Stop again.
“Nope, absolutely not,” I say to the empty shop.
Then reconsider again.
I turn away from the phone and type a reply instead: “Either it’s one of these three options I gave you, or none at all, as they’re the best I’ll offer without cutting off my nuts to make you happy, you insufferable prick, and if my parents you claim to respect so dearly knew how you’ve been trying to fuck this business into … ”
I stop.
What the hell has gotten into me?
This isn’t me. This isn’t Wyatt Callahan, the owner of Wishing Blooms who nurtured an injured dove back to life last month and set it free from my front porch with tears in my eyes.
This is Diego’s hot lava coming out of my mouth.
Or my fingers, more specifically.
I delete the reply.
And employ my own brand of standing-up-for-myself: “Thank you for your response, Grant. I am happy to discuss these options I offered in more detail with you very soon. Sincerely, Wyatt.”
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Then wonder if I said too much.
Or not enough.
Was it too vague? Did I seem like I was giving in, or standing my ground?
The only noise that fills my ears is the hum of the cooler in the back and the soft breath of the town outside, the wind picking up and stirring leaves past the front glass windows.
Mr. Bellamy doesn’t reply for the rest of the day.
I guess I’ll take that as a win. For now.
Robby swings by to grab his pickup order early, which saves me having to stay late. By the time I lock up to head off, my nerves have settled. I feel happy and accomplished.
Which I suppose is why the first thing I do when I get home is dig into Lottie and Marcos’s desecrated flowerbed.
The good news is that wildflowers are stubborn little miracles. Mow over them, and half will spring back to life out of spite.
Bad news: Diego found a way to tear over them at exactly the wrong height with the confidence of a tornado.
This may be more work than I counted on.
After changing into an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt I’ve had since tenth grade that still fits me, I fetch my green gloves, shears, trowel, and a flat of small clumps from my backyard patch.
I don’t exactly have the Garden of Eden back there.
Just a sunny strip that runs down the length of the fence where I let things grow a little bit wilder than my shop would allow.
See it as my babies letting their hair down.
Bluebonnets in spring—of course. Indian blanket.
Coreopsis. Black-eyed Susans. Blue sage.
A few stubborn things Lottie calls “sunny nonsense”, always forgetting their names.
As it turns out, she loved sunny nonsense the most.
It’s why I planted them in the front, with some blue sage for pops of color to play off of them.
And it’s all that color Diego murdered.
By accident, allegedly.
I spend a good while crouched in the ruined bed clearing out the shredded stems. Some of the crowns still seem good.
Others, not so much. I trim what can be saved, loosen up the soil around the brave survivors, and fill the bald spots with clumps from my yard.
The clumps droop immediately, offended by the move, but I press the soil firm around their roots and water them until the dirt turns dark—the best apology I can offer.
They won’t look nice today. Maybe not for weeks in this heat. But in the way of weeds and wild things refusing to die, they’ll damned well try.
And so will I.
I’m in the middle of pressing soil around a transplant when a shadow falls over me.
I don’t look.
If I don’t look, he isn’t there.
Then a heavy bag drops onto the ground next to me, causing me to jump.
Compost.
I turn to him, but all I see at first are his legs.
In his same work outfit.
Don’t you dare go there again, brain.
When my eyes finally negotiate their way up to his sour face, his expression helpfully snaps me out of it. “What’s this?”
“Don’t you need it?”
“Not for wildflowers.”
He frowns—as in, more than he already is. “The guy said this’ll help anything grow.”
If I had to guess, he went to the gardening section at Hadley’s Hardware, and if it’s Mr. Huntington he dealt with, that man will sell sunscreen to a cactus.
Diego’s just trying to do the right thing, isn’t he?
“Thanks,” I make myself say. Then: “We can use a sprinkle.”
“A sprinkle?”
“Yes. A light dusting.”
“The fuck’s a light dusting? I got a whole 40-pound bag.”
“You don’t need to spoil wildflowers. That’s the whole beauty of them. Very difficult to kill.” I reconsider. “Unless you’re armed with murderous machinery and a vendetta against pretty things.”
“So you gonna use it or not?”
I side-eye the bag. “Yes. A dusting. Like I said.” After a second, I add: “We can save the rest, or I can use it in my backyard and pay you back for it, or—”
“No need.” He walks off, clomps onto the porch, and goes into the house, door awkwardly fumbling shut instead of slamming.
That guy doesn’t do anything nice.
Not even when doing something nice.
I consider the lump of a bag sitting next to me, crinkled across the front, almost like it’s trying to smile. Diego’s gift.
He didn’t have to do this. He chose to.
This is how he apologizes, I tell myself.
After taking a breath, I cut it open and give the flowerbed my promised dusting of compost, taking care not to bury the crowns of the transplants. When finished, I close up the bag and step back.
We’ll see if these new guys survive. I have hope for them.
I close my eyes and give myself a minute.
It’s really been a day.
The sun’s almost gone when I’m back inside, showered, and in my flower-print PJ pants and t-shirt—yes, a bit on-the-nose, but they were gifts from my sister. I’m waiting on the microwave to decide my dinner’s done when I spot Diego out in the yard.
A stack of decorative edging stones sits next to him.
He’s making a border. Gently laying them out one by one. He nudges a stone. Turns it a little one way, then the other. Considers each placement like an artist.
I watch him even long after dinner’s ready. Watching him like a puzzle I can’t figure out.
But catch myself smiling.