There was something oddly enchanting about Sariel that Seymour couldn’t shake, and he found himself considering his options to potentially stick around Somerstown for a few more days. He hadn’t had much of a reason before, but now he could see himself wanting to stay and take in the sights.
Namely the sight of a beautiful man with golden curls and a dazzling smile.
And if not, then Seymour would have a very long drive back home ruminating over a hundred what-if’s involving said beautiful man.
At least he’d tried.
It wasn’t like he was offering Sariel much more than a good time for a short while. He would sooner set his truck on fire than move to the city, so maybe it was better if Sariel didn’t maketheir coffee date tonight. Sariel struck him as the breakfast in bed and cuddling type, and Seymour was very much not.
He wasn’t a fan of the termman-slut, but…
If the man-slut shoe fit.
Seymour knew it would be too easy to blame his long hours at the hospital where he worked as a phlebotomist, when the reality was he hated being tied down. His bedmates were always beautiful but ultimately boring, and he would find himself longing for another conquest.
He wanted the rush, the thrill of a new adventure, somethingmore.
Maybe something like Sariel.
Seymour dismissed the thought.
Any potential relationship between them would likely suffer the same fate as all the others. It didn’t matter how gorgeous or fun or intelligent or anything else someone was. The man could be perfect, everything Seymour had ever wanted in a partner, and yet the spark never lasted.
There was a deeper issue, he was sure.
It had nothing to do with the distance, but everything to do with himself and the empty void inside of him that he couldn’t fill no matter how hard he tried or how many men he took to bed or—wow.
All of this over a guy he’d only spoken to for a few minutes who loved cleaning graves and chatting about horoscopes.
Maybe it really was for the best if Sariel didn’t make their coffee date tonight.
Shit.
With a sigh, Seymour got in his truck and searched for a local flower shop on his phone. He found one by the name of Uranian Flora and then headed that way, his heart heavy with the task at hand. It was safer to fret over flowers than deal with his own inner bullshit.
Would roses be weird? Was that too romantic or something?
What about daisies?
Too cheerful for a grave?
Sariel probably would have known.
Shit.
Seymour parked across from the flower shop, eyeing it warily.
The flower shop was a brick building with three stories and a small greenhouse on the side. There were a bunch of bright pink flowering bushes out front, and the awnings over the door and windows were the same color. He’d seen those big flowering bushes all over the city, but he couldn’t remember what they were called. There was some sort of festival every year dedicated to them too, but the name eluded him.
Seymour got out of his car, deciding he had more important things to stress about than the name of some stupid flowers.
Like picking someotherstupid flowers for a grave.
He crossed the street to head inside the flower shop, his eyes immediately assaulted by hot pink counters and trim. The floors were stained a crazy bright blue, and the big menu hanging behind the register was a blinding shade of lime green. It was a lot to take in and Seymour found himself squinting.
A scruffy young man with dark hair, olive skin, and a bright smile was seated behind the counter at the register, talking to a pale woman with vivid red lipstick dressed like one of those rockabilly chicks.
The woman quieted down as Seymour approached, saying softly, “Oh, he looks like he’s had a terrible day.”
