Inside the kitchen, I slam the second set of flowers beside the vase holding his first. The rough motion draws a card from the bouquet, and I swear to fucking Christ—if there’s one more possessive comment, the flowers are getting shoved up his ass. Sadly, my creativity regarding threats is a whole lot less fatal than his.
Except, as I read the words, everything about this one is different. Cade’s first note, albeit irritating, sent a heat throughmy sternum I’ll spend the day pretending doesn’t exist. Whereas this one freezes out that warmth for every wrong reason.
You’re beautiful
Beneath it, a small circled V is lightly etched.
Different kind of message. Different writing. Different flowers.
Cade sends calla lilies and declares his possessiveness like I’m an object. He doesn’t compliment. He also ensures I get the flowers directly, by breaking in and proving there isn’t anywhere to hide from, whereas these were left outside. A taunt without the legal ramifications.
So if not him, who the fuck sent me these?
An hour into work—and after helping three different customers—I’m convinced I’m not fully present, my mind lost in the notes jammed inside my pocket. Between tasks, every free second has been spent examining the two, searching for any and all similarities, hoping with everything in me that they were both sent by Cade because he’s someone I can handle. Or at least understand what to expect.
There are none.
Before leaving home, I’d thrown out the roses, but not the calla lilies. There’s a deep psychological reason behind that action, but it isn’t something I feel like exploring.
In one of my short breaks between people and resetting the shop on what’s probably one of the busiest days of the year, I peek into the back room where the few delivery guys are constantly popping in and out. Tomorrow will be even moredemanding, but thankfully, I have the day off, so it isn’t my problem.
The door chimes, announcing another customer entering. Ripped black jeans and a baggy shirt, tattoos running up and down his neck and hidden by his shirt, he reminds me a bit of Cade. Only younger. And less hot. His hair’s tied back in a low ponytail, a beanie covering his head. Each brow is adorned with three piercings, and there’s another through his nose.
I plaster on my customer service smile as he greets, “Hey,” and strides towards the counter. “I’m not really good at this stuff, but I’m hoping you could help pick out something for my girl.” He shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Plants or flowers?” I pace to the centre of the shop, gesturing to each side and how it’s organized. “What would she prefer? Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean you have to get flowers when a nice plant sends the same message and lasts longer.”
He tips his head, unbound strands falling past his shoulder. “I get that, but she does love flowers. Roses maybe, even if it’s a cliché.”
My week has been filled with so. Many. Roses. I’d hoped to turn one customer—justone—onto another kind of plant or flower. Too much to ask for? My hands are basically raw from stripping them—and worse, they only remind me of this morning’s troubling bouquet from stalker number two.
At this point, I’ll be heading to the cops with a novel length of issues.
With a bit less energy to my step, I direct him towards the wall of roses, all well stocked since the manager was aware they’ll be the highest sellers of the week. “How large of a bouquet were you thinking?”
The customer doesn’t respond right away, so I give him a moment to consider options, presuming he’s running budget numbers in his head. After another moment, I go to offerrecommendations or a prompt, to see what’s holding him up. Or if another floral type distracted him—something that happens more often than not.
As I turn, my arm brushes his chest; he’s so much closer than we originally came over with. As uncomfortable as some people can be, customers are normally harmless, so I inch back with a flustered “Sorry” and ignore the chill down my spine.
Dark eyes crawl knowingly up my body, a smirk climbing alongside it, before both lower to the floor. “You must have dropped this.”
Faster than imagined, he shoves a bobby pin that isn’t mine into a chunk of my hair, scraping my scalp as he does so. His proximity draws my attention to a tattoo on his hand. One familiar, but not quite placed either. A faded V.
“There. Better.” The tattooed hand traces a line from my hair to my shoulder, hovering but not quite touching. Which is good because if he did, he’d find my nerves wound tighter than the elastic keeping his greasy hair back. “Your hair is a unique colour. Kinda like these roses, don’t you think?”
As if he can’t get any creepier, he plucks a rose from the many pre-formed bouquets and grips the top of the stem, where the bud and stem meet. Alarms start chiming, the flags I was seeking within Cade’s letters finally visible. If another customer entered, the distraction would be opportunistic and just fantastic.
From the rose, he plucks a single petal to hold up to the light, his crooning tone supposed to be alluring, but rather the opposite. “Like this. The different shades of pink, red, and burgundy that make it up.” Then he lowers it to my face, brushing it against my cheek. “Such a lovely shade. So unique. Of course, uniqueness only survives if it’s not left out in the cold.”
He drops the flower and petal to the ground and walks away. A few seconds later, the door chimes with his exit. Coolair rushes inside as he goes, but it doesn’t provide the oxygen required.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.It’shim. It must be. He all but admitted it.
I rush to the staff bathroom in the back, where, head in the toilet, I lose the iced coffee I picked up on the way to work. The bobby pin falls right into the toilet—sweet mercy.
Whoever he is, he left the flowers. The note. And then he came here to taunt me. Hewantedme to know it was him, even if I’ve never seen him before in my life.
The note!
