Sorry Im Late!
Maisie
Startled, I straightened at the register. She was maybe in her fifties – although it was hard to say for sure with her flashy jewelry and beauty-pageant smile. She wore denim capris, wedge sandals, and a neon pink T-shirt knotted at the waist.
I felt my eyebrows furrow. "Uh…late?"
She sagged with obvious relief. "So I'm not?" She looked heavenward. "Thank God. I swore up and down that I'd be on time." She lifted her wrist and squinted at a rhinestone-studded watch. "Oh, shit. I am late."
I reached for the clipboard. "For…an appointment?" It wasn't completely out of the question. To nobody's surprise, I had rehired Trevor the same day he'd shown up out of the blue.
By now, he'd been back for just over a week, and we'd settled into a decent rhythm as the season kicked into high gear.
About rehiring him, I had no regrets – well, except for the fact he wasn't Griff.
About him , my pile of regrets was so high that I'd need a stepladder to reach the top.
Still, I was making a dogged effort to get on with my life, to ignore the aching in my heart, and focus on the business, which was doing surprisingly well.
Thanks to Chad's travel blog, there'd been a surge of interest in those eclectic bikes, and Trevor had been doing a bang-up job of booking them. If not for the persistent tug in my chest, I'd say things were looking up.
Now, I consulted the clipboard and saw that yes, somebody named Tammy had reserved Disco Bike – aka Disco Inferno – for this afternoon.
I was just about to tell her that it was all set and ready to go when she asked, "So where is he? In the back?"
I blinked. He, who? Trevor?
Before I could answer, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called out toward the back room. "Hey, Bike Dude! Come on out and give your favorite mom a hug!"
Trevor. Definitely. "Oh, gosh. Sorry. He's not here." I winced. "He's probably still at the post office."
She turned to me with a funny little frown. "Why there?"
"Hopefully to pick up some tire tubes…assuming the shipment's not late again." I glanced toward the door. "But I'm sure he'll be back any moment."
With a smile, she rolled her eyes. "That little shit. Do you know I ran all the way from the dock?" She pointed toward her shoes. "In these? " She gave a throaty laugh. "Boy, is he gonna hear it."
In spite of my lingering heartache, I couldn't help but smile – a real smile for the first time in days. "Well, don't go too hard on him. It's my fault he's gone."
She chortled. "Oh, he's so grounded." She glanced around. "Nice shop, by the way."
"Thanks." And then, searching for something to say, I asked, "So how are things at the hospital?" As I said it, I breathed a small sigh of relief that her job wouldn't be threatened by anything to do with me or my shop.
That risk was officially gone.
An article in yesterday's Mackinaw Bugle had revealed that Marcus and Benny Wexler of Bridge and Bay Finance wouldn't be threatening anyone any time soon.
Turns out, they were white-collar thugs looking to corner some real estate here on the island. Not anymore . Both men were now under state and federal investigations for a wide array of financial crimes, including tax evasion, loan sharking, and real estate fraud.
The way things were looking now, the only things they'd be cornering were prison cells along with some hefty fines.
But here in my shop, Trevor's mom gave me a perplexed look as if she had no idea what was going on. "What hospital?"
It was my turn to look perplexed. " You know…the place where you work?" I tried to think. "In billing, right?"
"Oh, honey," she laughed. "I haven't worked in years."
Okay, now I was really confused.
Unless…was I reading all of this wrong?
My heart gave a dangerous little flutter as I asked, "So you're not Trevor's mom?"
She snorted. "Who's Trevor?"
The flutter turned to fireworks behind my ribs. What if she'd meant –
No.
No way.
That couldn't be it.
Could it?
I didn't get to ask, because just then, the front door jingled open.
And in walked… him.
My heart stuttered so hard I nearly forgot how to breathe.
It was Griff – but not the Griff who'd worked in my shop, not the guy with grease under his nails or chain oil on his jeans.
No, this was Montgomery Freaking Griffin in full billionaire bloom.
He wore charcoal slacks and a white dress shirt so sleek it looked custom-made. Everything about him – from his cocky stride to his sheer presence – screamed money.
Lots of money.
And worst of all? Or should I say best of all?
He was carrying a bouquet.
It was huge and colorful – pink and red with white daisies, the kind of flowers that radiated romance, hope, and I love you all at once.
My heart hammered in my chest. I had to remind myself that he had never said it, not even once.
And neither had I.
But here he was.
My throat went dry, my knees started to wobble, and words utterly failed. I just stood there, stricken behind the counter, while somebody's mom stood watching me like she'd been rooting for this moment all along.
She leaned close to whisper, "Just so you know, those flowers aren't for me."