For two decades, I'd worked my ass off and lived on breadcrumbs so I could pour money back into Micah’s Blooms.
I’d learned to deal with cranky customers and bridezillas who insisted on purple jonquils and got pissed atmebecause nature didn’t provide them in that color.
Hell, a year and a half ago, I’d even moved myself and my business away from my hometown—the house I owned, the family I adored—to fuckingO’Leary, just to be closer to the destination wedding venues that were my bread and butter.
ButnothingI’d made myself do in the name of earning a dollar was as uniquely painful as spending my Saturday mornings at the Rushton-O’Leary Farmer’s Market—hauling my plants and flowers out here every week; setting them up in an eye catching display; marking time in this six-by-ten, three-sided event tent while exactlyzerocustomers stopped by; and listening to Pete Daley and hisfuckingtribute band, The Daley News, provide live entertainment.
Kill me now.
“Thank you. Thanks, everyone!” Pete said into the microphone, his voice somehow managing to sound both far away and eardrum-shatteringly loud at the same time. “So, um, that was our ska version of ‘Jeremy’ by the one and only Pearl Jam, if you couldn’t tell! One little announcement before we get back to the music:CalliesaysAbesaysParkersays he’ll be giving away free burger samples at eleven-thirty over at Hoff’s! And those things are dang good, so plan your morning accordingly!” He cleared his throat. “This next number is The Daleys’ rockabilly version of the classic Ace of Base song, ‘The Sign’!And speaking of signs, if you’re lookin’ to sell your house, condo, or double-wide, stop on by the McMenamy Real Estate booth and tell my gal Cheryl you sayhey! One. Two.One, two, three, four.”
I wasnota religious man. I’d been raised by a grandmother who’d legally changed her name to MoonFlower Bloom back in the sixties. She’d taught us that organized religion was even less trustworthy than the government. Heaven and hell, she’d said, were concepts created millennia ago to hobble the minds of the masses.
Still, as Pete launched into a twanging guitar riff that was every bit as enthusiastically terrible as I’d anticipated, I couldn’t help but think hell was very, very real… and it was located right here, in the middle of Nowhere Special, New York.
I squeezed my eyes shut and bit back a groan.
This is important, Micah. Eyes on the prize. You have a plan. You need to shore up your local presence if you want to diversify and stop relying solely on weddings. You have goals to attain. You have a second location in Rushton to open. Youwilldo this.
And I would, I thought, as I opened my eyes once more. Once I’d set my mind on something, I did not back down.
I looked at the empty tent across the aisle and rolled my eyes. Ross Landscaping and Flowers, my biggest competitor, had apparently decided not to man their booth today. Must be nice to have such a solidly-established business that you could simply choose not to show up.
Then again, from what I’d learned of Angela Ross in the past eighteen months, she’d never miss an opportunity to commune with her fellow O’Learians, especially if it meant she—and they—could stand around glaring at anyone who dared tolookat my booth let alone actually buy something from the competition.
No, this failure had to be on Constantine Ross, the ne’er-do-well middle son. The one with the big, blue eyes and the wide, friendly smile, the broad shoulders, scruffy beard, and bubble-shaped ass. The one who laughed and teased and flirted and madeeveryonelove him, from whining children to grumpy old men, even as they shook their heads over his antics and clucked their tongues at his lack of responsibility. The one O’Learians calledtrouble,and amenace,and asweetheart,and acharmer.
But if there was something charming about the man, I’d never noticed. He was an entitled man-child who’d been handed everything he needed to be successful—good looks, a job, a town so rabidly supportive it was a wonder I’d stayed in business this long—and repeatedly squandered those gifts.
He was dramatic.
And fuckingprovoking.
And yes, okay, Imaybenoticed his ass. And his blue eyes. And his smile. But that was only because I was a red-blooded, forty-year-old gay man who’d stopped enjoying one-night stands around the time Constantine was figuring out what his dick was for. I didn’t do Grindr, and I didn’t waste time trolling for an easy lay at The Hive on a Saturday, and consequently I was possibly a little…frustrated.
Unlike Constantine.
Who was at The Hive all the damn time.
And never left with the same man or woman twice.
Not that I noticed that either.
Constantine Ross might be extremely appealing on the surface, but there was absolutely no substance to him whatsoever.
He was a Krispy Kreme with a sassy mouth.
“I’m here! The party can now begin!” my sister Leandra announced as she hurried around the table at the front of the booth. “Sorry I’m late.”
I straightened up to get a good look at her. Her long, dark hair was pinned up in buns that looked like lopsided mouse ears, and her Micah’s Blooms t-shirt was rumpled and stained.
“It’s fine. Everything okay with you and Gwynnie? Your text didn’t say much.”
“Yeah, she’s fine. Home with Jared. Had to take her to the doctor, though. Four hour screaming fit last night, which Google assured me could notpossiblybe teething since she’s only five months old, but the doctor says it is.” She shook her head. “Why does every single child bring some new challenge? This is mythirdrodeo, but every one of my girls has made me feel like a newbie.”
“Didn’t Cora start teething atthreemonths?” I said, referring to our other niece. “You could’ve called Lauren. Aren’t your super twin powers redeemable for shit like that?”
Leandra smirked. She removed the huge carryall strapped around her chest and stowed it under the table at the rear of the tent. “A few years back, when Olivia was born, Lauren told me I could call her anytime night or day. That ourtwin bondwas more important than sleep, or some happy horseshit like that. But after two weeks with a newborn, I knew that was a fuckinglie, because there isnothingmore important to a mom of littles than adequate sleep. So, twin sister or not, I won’t call Lauren after eleven unless someone’s hemorrhaging.”
