Blue Roses (2 page)

“Those flowers are almost as pretty as you,” he says. “How’s your handwriting?”

My cheeks flush at the double compliment. I grab a pen and a notecard.

“You say the words and I’ll write ‘em.”

“Just put down the usual.”

I glance up. “You want me to write ‘Sorry I’m such a jerk’ on here?”

“If that’s the usual, then I guess it’ll do.”

“It’s your funeral,” I joke, writing the note.

Immediately, I rip up the card. My Florist Code kicked in. I can’t do harm.

“Why’d you rip that up?” he asks.

I gaze up into his breathtaking blue eyes.

“Luca, you asked me what I know about women. Let me give you a bit of advice. There’s not a woman out there who wants to get
the usual
.”

He takes the pen from my hand. His fingers graze my fingers in three separate and distinct spots. I feel the contact in every part of my body.

He picks up a fresh card from the stack on the counter. In simple block letters, he writes:

SORRY I’M A JERK. -LUCA

He looks up at me, a devilish grin on his lips.

“Good luck with that,” I say.

He leans across the counter.
He’s going to kiss me.

His brown wavy hair brushes my cheek. He wraps his arms carefully around the large vase holding the arrangement, picks it up, then walks to the door.

My sister comes in as he leaves, holding the door open for him. She walks in, her eyes and mouth wide open. “Who was that big hunk of man-candy with half the store’s flowers?”

“Some lucky girl’s boyfriend.”

“The good ones are always taken. Or gay. Or players. Or live with their mother.”

“We live with our mother.”

“It’s not weird for girls.”

I start closing the cash register for the end of day reports.

She gives me her pitying look. “Tina, I saw the blue roses in the cooler. Are you okay? Prom’s coming up soon, and then…”

“I’m fine. I’m not going to your lame-ass support group.”

“If you really
were
fine, you might do more than work here and hide away with your sad movies. What was going on last night? I had my window open. I haven’t heard sounds like that since we gave Muffin his anti-dandruff bath.”

“Just a stupid movie with a golden retriever. I should know better. The dog on the poster always dies. People who make movies are assholes.”

“But it’s not just the movie. You always get bad this time of year.”

I slam the cash drawer shut.

“And I always get over it. So leave me alone.”

“Leave you alone? Careful, or you might get exactly what you ask for.”

I roll my eyes and walk away. “Close up the shop yourself,” I call over my shoulder.

The lights are on, so that means my best friend Rory is waiting for me when I get home. She’s used the hidden key to let herself into the place I call my
cottage
. It’s actually a converted former garage in my mother’s back yard.

For the past few years, a lot of owners in this neighborhood have taken advantage of the city’s new zoning. Some people have built new mini-houses to rent out, and others have converted their garages.

Everybody complains about the construction and acts like city hall’s push for density is the End of Days. Eventually some of the loudest complainers start building mini-houses in their backyards, and then the new zoning is better than cheese and jam.

I walk in and find Rory using my Mac. I bought the computer because I was going to teach myself graphic design, or programming, or something. I mostly use it to check Facebook.

“Hey, sexy,” I say. “Are you here for that booty call?”

Rory jumps up and shakes out her whole body to communicate her disgust at my greeting.

Rory isn’t like anyone else I know. She gets grossed out by any mention of sex, in conversation, or in books or movies. A single word can send her screaming from the room.

She’s been my best friend since high school, and I love her as much as—or even more than—my sister. With her curly brown hair, she fits right in with my family. Our eyes are similar, but not exactly the same. She has golden-brown eyes, and my sister and I have green eyes.

When we were teens, Rory spent more time at my house than at hers. Things were rough at her house.

I try to be sensitive to her issues, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy teasing her sometimes.

There’s a long list of words that will send her running from the room, including:

Breasts.

Panties.

Moist.

If I’m losing an argument with her, I’ll work into the conversation one of her no-no words.

“So, you’re not here for a booty call?” I tease. Booty call is on the sometimes-okay list of words.

Rory gives me a dirty look and returns to using my Mac. “Everything’s booked and confirmed,” she says.

I jump onto the sofa, which also folds out into my bed. I grab a throw pillow and get comfortable.

“Rory, don’t take this the wrong way, but wouldn’t you rather take a guy with you?”

“Guys are yucky,” she says, sounding like she’s twelve, and not twenty-nine like me.

We’ve been through her issues a thousand times. She’s not into girls, and she does like the idea of dating a guy eventually. Just not yet. She can’t even watch R-rated movies. It’s a mystery that I’ve learned to accept.

“I met an interesting guy today. Not a guy, really, but a man. He had the biggest hands.”

She swivels around on the chair, looking more worried than interested.

I continue, “His name is Luca Lowell. He’s the guy who bought the Baker Brothers’ garage and is turning it into a bike repair shop.”

“Bicycles?”

“No. Like Harleys and stuff.”

“That does sound manly. Are you going out with him?”

I grab another pillow and hold it to my stomach as I laugh.

She taps away on the keyboard. “Luca Lowell. Found him.”

I sit up. “Rory! Not on my computer.”

“He won’t know. Facebook has your IP address, but they won’t give it to him.” She keeps clicking and typing. “His photos must be set as private. There. I just friend-requested him.”

“As me?”

“No, I’m logged in under… uh… oops.”

“Undo!” I yell. “Undo! Undo! Command Z!”

“He already accepted. Don’t freak out. You guys have a dozen friends in common already, mostly people from Baker Street. Just tell him it’s for business.”

I glare at her.

“This isn’t fair at all, Rory. You freak out if I make one little suggestion about your love life, but it’s fair game to go friend-requesting guys with my account?”

“It was an accident,” she says.

“That’s a lie, and not a convincing one.”

“What’s wrong with having a few more friends?”

I narrow my eyes at her.

She widens her eyes, as if to say,
bring it
.

“Panties,” I say.

Her face goes pale and she jumps up from the chair.

“No, you didn’t,” she says.

I think of her no-no words and form some sentences in my head.

“Hey, Rory. My
breasts
feel tender. I need some
moist
chocolate cake. Would you like to go out for some
moist
chocolate cake?”

She grabs her coat and purse. “Whatever. I need to get packed anyway. You shouldn’t leave your account logged in like that.”

“You’d better go before I drop the nuclear bomb.”

Her golden brown eyes widen as she backs up toward the door. “You wouldn’t.”

I drink in the anticipation.

She stares back at me. “It’s just a friend request.”

“Pussy,” I say.

She covers her ears with both hands and runs out before I can drop the nuclear word again.

Thursday morning, Rory phones me before I leave for work.

“I’m sorry for meddling,” she says.

“I accept your apology, and I’m sorry for saying the p-word.”

“Good. Did you get any messages from your new friend?”

“No. Nothing. And Luca’s profile is weirdly bare. It looks like he only uses the account for business. He’s posted a bit about preparing for the garage’s grand re-opening, but not much else.”

“How did you say you met him?”

“He was buying flowers for someone. I assume it was for his girlfriend. He said it was a woman, and she was mad at him because he did some sort of thing he always does.”

There’s a pause. “I don’t know if I can talk about this.”

I gasp. “You think it was a sex thing? Like he was in bed with her, and did some sort of thing that offended her? I can’t even imagine. Actually, I can imagine. I’m imagining a lot of things.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

I hold the phone away from my ear and see that the screen is black. Rory probably hung up at the word sex.

I send her a text message apologizing, and then go to work.

Thursday goes by like a typical Thursday.

Friday is no more interesting. I keep hoping Luca will stop in, or post something on Facebook, like a sudden change in relationship status. His profile currently has it set to private, so I can’t even see.

On Friday night, I’ve been thinking about Luca Lowell so much that he comes to visit me in my dreams.

They’re very good dreams.

Saturday morning, my alarm clock goes off early. I don’t have to work today, but I do have to hit the road.

Today is the beginning of my weekend getaway at a hot springs resort.

Rory won the package through a contest, and was generous enough to take me with her. I pick her up in my car, and I pay for the gas and snacks to get us there.

We check in at the resort before noon, and go straight for lunch. She’ll go into the hot springs after we eat, but she won’t use the spa packages.

Rory isn’t just squeamish about people talking about sex. Her other issue is she can’t stand people touching her. She has to cut her own hair, and she takes Valium before dentist appointments.

Since she won’t partake in the treatments, that means double the massages for me, which I don’t mind.

The rest of Saturday passes in a fog of bliss.

I sleep like a log—a log who dreams about a tall, muscular, gruff-looking man with blue eyes.

At brunch on Sunday, I keep my vivid dreams to myself.

In the afternoon, I go to my next treatment while Rory visits the steam room.

In the treatment room, I’m given my choice of massage therapists.

I make a joke, saying, “I’ll take the one with the biggest hands.”

The attendant taps at her tablet. “He will be with you in a moment. Please make yourself comfortable on the table.”

She gives me a funny little smile, like she thinks I might be requesting a guy on purpose. My brain badgers me with worries.

Tina, now you’ve done it! This spa chick thinks you want a happy ending. Why’d you ask for someone with big hands? Aren’t the sex dreams more than enough for you? What if the spa puts you on some sort of registered pervert list?

I look at the door and think about making an excuse and running out.

But I don’t run out.

I’m curious about this massage therapist with the big hands. What would that even feel like? Every guy I’ve dated has had hands not much bigger than mine. I’m five foot nine, and my boyfriends haven’t been tall.

I get onto the table, face down, and cover my butt with the sheet. Minutes pass.

I imagine this mystery guy getting ready, washing his big hands and complaining to his coworkers about having to give yet another happy ending to a horny spa guest.

Unfortunately, now I’m thinking about happy endings.

Even though it’s a joke, my body starts to hum with excitement. My body does not understand the difference between a fantasy and a horrifying worst-case scenario.

I’d be mad at my body, but it’s been well over a year since I was touched, and my body is game for anything.

The door to the treatment room squeaks open, and someone slips in quietly. I lift my head to take a peek. The man looks like an Olympic skier from Norway. His square jaw and blue eyes remind me of Luca.

I put my face down and give myself a lecture:

Tina, do not moan. This man is a professional, and he’s going to give you a professional massage. Keep your mouth shut and keep your happy sounds to yourself. Do you hear me, Tina’s body? No wiggling around under his touch.