4. CALL ME MAYBE
4
CALL ME MAYBE
CARLY RAE JEPSEN
DINAH
He’s here. He came back and, Sweet Baby Ray, he has the softest looking stubble running along his jaw that was most certainly not there last night.
Rugged Ken.
I have to physically stop myself from hopping over the bar and skipping across the room to get to him faster.
Did I fantasize last night for far too long—despite Emory’s lackluster input—about mystery man and our epic meet cute? Yes. Yes, I did. There were flower drawings, full on daydreams, and musings about weddings that I will not get into now. I’m a warm-blooded woman who hasn’t felt the pitter patter of my excited heart coming to life in quite a while. I will not apologize.
I did eventually begin to wonder if I’d somehow imagined the electricity between us. I was caught up in the excitement of the night. In the success of the grand opening and the warm welcome from Honey Hill’s residents. Surely I hadn’t experienced a once in a lifetime, love at first sight, maybe we should just run away together type moment with a complete and utter stranger. That would be crazy. And I’m not crazy.
But here he is now, and all those same butterflies are breakdancing in my belly. And frankly, I’d like nothing more than to throw myself into this man’s arms.
I know, I’m insane.
I feel it.
“So, you came back for those Cinnamon Twists afterall.” Whoa. First sentence delivered with surprising steadiness. We’re off to a good start.
Only, Ken just stares at me. Stares. But not in an I just met my future wife for the second time sort of way. He’s looking at me more akin to a person who’s in need of a translator or maybe a strong antacid. He narrows his hazel eyes, and I falter.
“Dinah?” he asks, voice scratchy and somehow unsure.
“Uh, yeah.” Laughing his question off in a way that screams discomfort, I try again. “Do you… um… Do you want some coffee maybe? Or—”
“No.” His eyes search the room as if he’s seeing it for the first time. “It looks like the inside of a Polly Pocket in here.”
I laugh, though I'm sure it comes out as more of a startled welp. I don’t know how to take that. He seemed to like everything he saw last night.
“Um. Thank you?”
Taking a deep breath through his nose, like he’s holding himself steady, those piercing eyes of his land on the flowers I have near the register.
I follow his line of sight. “Oh, Charlie brought those for me this morning. I’m assuming you know Charlie, right? I get the feeling she knows just about everyone around here. She’s been so sweet to me.” I clench my hands together, feeling more and more insecure by the second. “My sister, Emory, brought me the daisies from the shop next door. I thought it was a bike shop, but it’s not.”
“Petals.”
“Yes!” I say, excited, because maybe he’s warming up to me again. “It’s got the sweet robin’s-egg blue bike up front with the basket of flowers.”
“It’s spelled P.E.T.A.L.S.”
“Right.”
“Bike pedals are P.E.D.A.L.S. It's a different word.”
I point my finger up in the air, proud I remember my middle-grade English lessons. “It’s a homophone.”
He looks to the heavens rather than at me, mumbling more to himself, “I know it’s a homophone."
“Then we’re in agreement.”
Waving him off, I arrange the flowers a bit, admiring them again and avoiding eye contact for the first time since he walked in. “Anyways, the roses you brought… Well, I put them in my apartment upstairs.”
Eyes flicking back to mine, his jaw tightens. “Roses?”
“Yeah. I know they match the vibe down here, but they’re so beautiful I wanted to see them when I woke up this morning. Thank you, again.”
He grunts—GRUNTS—and takes a decisive step towards the door.
I am so entirely confused and so completely deranged. Clearly, I misread every signal from last night. The man I was all too ready to hitch my wagon to only twelve hours ago is now staring me down like a cockroach scuttling around in his kitchen.
“You never did tell me your name.”
The next moment can only be described as a trainwreck. If I were a passerby, peeping into the giant, gorgeous window, I’d plaster my cheeks right to the glass and wouldn’t be able to tear myself away.
He looks up, startled. As if I asked him the answer to a quantum physics equation. For all I know, the man does know quantum physics. Because I know ZERO about him.
I can’t take a hint, so I take a step forward, instinctively following the man who so obviously does not want to be followed. When he flinches in response, I reach out a hand and laugh—again—because apparently that's the only response my brain can manage when faced with my own delusions. Something in his face and body language turns me upside down. It’s like he’s a completely different person today. No longer does he wear the charming smile or confidence of the man who strutted through my door last night.
This man is terse. Quiet. Withdrawn. He’s a trapped animal looking for an escape route. It makes me feel foolish and unreasonably sad.
He takes another step back and glares at the speakers hanging from the rafters.
“Your music's too loud.”
My hands immediately find my hips. “Excuse me?”
“ I’m next door. At Petals.” He flicks his head to where the quaint flower shop is nestled on the other side of the wall, and I do a double take.
He’s the flower shop owner or does he just work there? Did he make the beautiful arrangements I’ve received? I find myself staring down his curséd forearms again, where the brawn is evident, only highlighted by where his grey henley stops midarm. Those do not seem like the muscles of a man who merely trims flowers all day.
I’m shaken from my assessment when he shifts on his feet. “The music’s too… much. I need you to turn it down.” He nods like he said what he came to say and turns on his heel.
Suddenly, I’m fuming. Not only has the man marched in with behavior my six-year-old niece would be appalled over, but his hot and cold attitude is giving me whiplash. I’m mentally throwing all my preemptive plans out the window as we speak. Or don’t speak, as he’s charging the door like he can’t get away fast enough.
“Hey!” I follow, shouting over the music, because, yeah, okay, it is a little loud—and especially since he’s managed to get halfway out the door. I do not wanna get off on the wrong foot with my new, grossly attractive neighbor, but I was already prepared to run away with him, so I'm pretty sure I crossed the threshold of propriety somewhere between steamy eye contact in front of the crowd last night and the glass of wine I sipped with my sister afterwards, whilst musing over said eye contact. “Who do you think you are?!”
He stops in his tracks outside the door, and I bump into his back, not expecting the abrupt stop.
“Oof. Sorry.” I cross my arms and attempt to look taller. “Actually, I’m not sorry. This is my shop. You didn’t seem to have a problem with my music or my playlist or me last night, but then you march into my shop and you… you…”
What do I want to say here? You didn’t immediately drop to one knee and propose?
“You are… rude!” There. That’ll show him. I stomp my foot for good measure.
He has the decency to look embarrassed, and just when I think I’ve gotten through to him, the man whips his hands from his pockets and crosses his arms, mirroring my stance with much more intimidation and defined muscle mass. It’s irritating and disturbingly hot.
“Sorry.” He clenches his fists. “Turn down your music, please. ”
With that, he turns and heads back to Petals . The sunshine striped awning hanging over the flower shop welcomes the walking rain cloud as he slams the door behind him.
I’m left on the sidewalk staring at the cute bicycle brimming with daisies and sunflowers, realizing I still don’t know his name. But when I do finally find out what to call him, I’ll be adding it to the top of my ick list.
“So he just ghosted you?” Emory dips a salted pretzel in a creamy beer cheese sauce and moans as she takes another bite.
“I don’t think ghosting is actually the correct term.” I rip a hunk of pretzel off and aggressively shove it in my mouth. “It’s more like he acted completely oblivious to ever having met me. Like we didn’t share a moment.”
One of Emory’s eyebrows lifts in that way that I know means she wants to add her two cents, but I am still the petulant teenager who knows better than her, and she knows I won’t listen.
“Just say it.”
“It’s just that”—she licks cheese sauce off her thumb—“you tend to romanticize things in your head a bit, Dinah Belle. You always have.”
“I don’t do that.”
“You do.” She keeps chewing, inhaling pretzels as if she isn’t imparting an annoying bit of wisdom over our adult snack time. “You love the idea of love. With your romance books and your reality TV—”
I try to interject, but she shakes her head, and I give her the respect she’s earned.
“Maybe what you thought was a moment was really just one friendly neighbor greeting another. Maybe, and forgive me for this, baby girl, he’s just not that into you.”
I throw a piece of pretzel at her, and she picks it right off her blouse and slips it into her mouth. “Don’t be bitter.”
“Don’t be a know-it-all.” Spitting my tongue at her doesn’t make me feel any better, so I sulk down in my seat and spin it once in a circle. “I thought we had a moment, Em. I really did. I’m so embarrassed.”
She stops me mid-spin and takes my hand. “I know you did. I’m sorry. I’ll admit, the man was foine .” She brings her fingers to her lips and kisses them before raising them to the sky. “I mean, chef’s kiss , he is just about perfect. However— However…” She always repeats when she wants to emphasize something important, and the simple habit makes me feel a little better inside. There’s nothing a little girl-chat with my big sis can’t fix. “No guy who changes his mind about you overnight is worth the time you’re wastin’ on feelin’ embarrassed. His loss, Dinah Belle. Not yours.”
“You’re right.” I nod and toast her pretzel stick to mine before popping it into my mouth. “ Grumpy Ken can kiss it.”
“Yeah, but he can’t kiss you.”
I scoff and act as if I could never. “Right.”
“Right?” Emory’s eyebrow raises, and I’m saved by the bell as Charlie enters the shop at the absolute perfect time.
“Well hello, hello, you beautiful ladies.” Charlie waves and walks right behind the bar as if she owns the place. She and Emory became quick friends on opening night, and Charlie has taken us all under her Honey Hill wing ever since. I’m sure Emory’s monogrammed gift basket will be hand delivered shortly. “And where is your mini-me, ma’am?”
“School and then a friend’s house. I have another glorious, child-free hour left before pickup.” Emory spins once in her chair, giving her feet a playful kick. When she rights herself, it’s as if she realizes she let go in front of an almost stranger, so she straightens her hair and shirt a bit, an embarrassed blush flooding her cheeks.
“Well, spill, y’all.” Charlie swipes a piece of pretzel from the plate we’ve been eating off of and dips it in the cheese sauce without preamble. “What’s the hot gossip? What’s the tea? I’ve got two sons in my life who refuse to date or give me grandbabies, and the granny clock is a-tickin’. Make it juicy!”
Emory covers a giggle, and I just know she’s aching to share my lack of love life with this woman. I give her the don’t you dare face she should be well acquainted with by now, but she all but bursts with the information. “Dinah had a run in with the flower guy!”
They both turn to me.
“Jack?” Charlie asks, pausing with a pretzel to her lips.
I shrug, but my mind grasps onto his name. Jack? Jack the flower man. Jack the rude, but beautiful flower man.
“He brought her roses the other night, but—”
Charlie looks as if she’s experiencing a minute of disbelief but interrupts my sister’s overshare. “Jackson brought you roses? I saw you all at the opening together. If ya ask me, he looked sweet on you.”
I hate the way those words draw warmth to my chest. I think Jack is a stinker. The male equivalent of the word moist . I do not care that it appeared as if he might be interested in me.
At. All.
“Yeah, well, Jackson was a supreme jerk to her the next day, so we were just discussing how Dinah won’t be wasting her time on him.”
Charlie shakes her head and says through a mouthful of pretzel, “I say give the boy another go. Maybe he just had a bad day.”
“Maybe…” I try not to be too hopeful. Whether I’d admit it or not to Charlie, my pride took a nice plummet over the past few days. I haven’t seen Jack, if that’s what his name is, since our interaction on the street, and I don’t know how I’ll react when I do.
Because my luck is what it is, I don’t have to wait long to plan my course of action. The man in question waltzes through the door before I can get a word in edgewise. He’s clean-shaven today. Hair tidier than the last time I saw him and button down neatly tucked into dark khakis, the man has the gall to lightly whistle as he approaches the group of women quietly judging him.
“Dinah Belle,” he says, devious smirk and far too charming for his own good. “I could not wait to get back here to you and those Cinnamon Twists.”
He dips his head at Charlie and Emory, but only has eyes for me. My sister audibly scoffs, shaking her head and tut tut tutting like a disapproving mother.
But I put up my palm to calm her. Because if my sister has taught me anything, it’s how to be a strong woman, and I will not let this man play head games with me. Even if he does look like he moonlights as a J. Crew model.
“Jackson,” Charlie greets him pointedly, hobbling off her seat and pulling him down to her level by his shirt front. “You’ve got a lotta explainin’ to do, boy.”
His eyes grow twice their size, and I decide I’ll make Charlie a nice little basket of Chocolate Pretzel Bites in thanks.
Charlie nudges my sister. “Why don’t we give these two a few minutes to chat, Emory.” She heads for the door that leads to my loft. “I’d love to see what Dinah has done with the apartment upstairs.”
Emory waits for me to give her the okay, and when I nod, she sighs but leads Charlie out of the shop and up to my small apartment.
“I feel like I might be missing something,” Jackson admits, running a hand through his hair. “I know this will sound a little crazy, but the other night… I felt like we had…” He pauses and gestures between the two of us. “I felt like we might have something between us, ya know?”
“We did?”
He nods, a shy, uncertain smile shows me a hint of his teeth. “I thought so. I hoped.”
I am absolutely flummoxed. This man has spoken more words in the last thirty seconds than he did for the two to three minutes he stood uncomfortably in my presence only days ago. He appears emotionally intelligent and pleasant even. And unlike Emory’s earlier assessment, he does seem into me.
He's holding himself differently, too. Somehow more proper and poised. I study his face, where the scruff that had been taunting me along his jawline is now smooth and defined. His hazel eyes are the same, though today they do seem a bit brighter somehow.
“Do you have a brother?” I blurt out because it’s the only thing that makes sense.
“A brother?”
“Yeah. Do you have a brother? Because I just don’t understand how we are going from this”—I wave a hand between him and me—“to what happened the other day.”
“The other day…” he echoes. “Right. Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I have a brother.”
“You do!” My voice lifts with tenuous hope. He has a brother. Obviously a twin. My heart and ovaries want to throw a party, but I tell those girls to calm down and not to get ahead of themselves again. Patience is a virtue, and we all gotta wait to see what happens next.
His confidence returns, and he holds out his hand. “We haven’t been properly introduced yet, right? I’m sorry about that. I’m Jackson Jones.”
I accept his hand and feel the old ticker beating faster when he doesn’t release me, but instead, lets his thumb graze the back of my hand.
“Hi, Jackson.”
“Hi, Dinah Belle.” He uses his grip to inch closer. “I’m not sure what my… what he said to you, but I’d like the chance to revisit the discussion about you and me.”
“I’m listening,” I say like I’ll consider him, but the truth is, my resolve is a puddle, melted at my feet. I’m waving the proverbial white flag and would walk out of here right now if he asked. And I’m learning I have zero self-control.
“I know it’s a bit forward, but I want to get to know you better. Let me take you out?”
I tap my fingers along the counter top. “And where would we go, Jackson Jones?”
“I’ve got some ideas. Say yes. Give me a little of your time.”
This is definitely not the man I met a few days ago. I see now, the differences are as clear as night and day. Where his brother was abrupt and terse, Jackson is smooth and kind. And it's his instant likeability that makes him impossible to resist.
“Yes.”
Jackson takes a deep breath, and then, just as a small group of teens walk into the shop, he leaps from his chair, circles the room, and shouts with his fists in the air, “She said yes!”
The teens cheer, and I just know my cheeks match my hair right now.
“You, Dinah Belle”—Jackson returns, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles like a good Southern gentleman—“have made me a very happy man.”