“What if I use leaves instead of ribbon—an orchid in the center and some kind of peacock feather where the bow would go? It’ll be one of a kind.”
“That would work,” she said on a breath. “I love it.”
“Great. I’ll write up the order, and it’ll be ready for Cassidy next Saturday,” he said with all the enthusiasm he could muster.
“Elizabeth, we’ve got it.” He raised his voice so she could hear as he scribbled the details on his order book and handed a copy to Becca.
He nodded to Elizabeth as she emerged from the back room. “Elizabeth will check you out.”
He had a funeral wreath to finish and a day of deliveries to prepare ahead of him. The front door opened, and his grandmother shuffled into the shop. Unable to help himself, he groaned. Babushka was on a mission, along with his mother and sister, to find him a replacement wife. They brought women through daily, most of them had been promised he would be interested in far more than just a good time. Most of their prospects already had an engagement ring picked out and the wedding dress on layaway.
The thought made his balls shrivel, just a little.
His family had gone a bit insane about the whole deal, no matter his attempts at neutralizing the situation.
“Hey, Babushka. You’re early,” he said.
She generally didn’t arrive until after noon.
“Never too early for vork,” she replied in her thick Russian accent.
If you could call what she did for the flower shop work. Mostly, she sat around gossiping with the other employees. Sometimes she went out with the delivery driver while he made his rounds. Back in the days when his grandfather had operated the shop, she’d done just the same.
Babushka grabbed a handful of roses and went about wrecking the symmetry of the wreath he’d been working on. Her slight frame seemed almost fragile, but he knew better. She was built from solid steel and, even as she’d aged, her fashion sense never changed. Her family ran flower shops. She wore all floral prints, all the time. Even if the prints clashed. Today was bright orange and neon green with a red silk scarf printed with roses. On anyone else it would just seem loud. On Babushka? Her style announced her presence.?
“Thanks for your help.” Becca lifted the obnoxious green prom gown and sashayed to the register.
“She vas pretty. Strong hips. She vill make good babies,” Babushka said, a bit too loud.
“For another man, yes, I’m sure she will.” He snatched the coffee mug he’d set aside earlier and took a long pull. His gaze trailed across the street to Heather’s cookie shop.
Heather, with her long brown hair held back tight in a ponytail, her shirt falling perfectly against her chest, her precise makeup. Not too much, just enough to amplify her big brown eyes and draw his attention to her lips. He wouldn’t mind running his palms over her waist, down her hips—
“I vill be dead soon.” Babushka cut straight through his daydream.
He slid his gaze from the yellow-and-pink shop across the street to his grandmother. “You’re not dying.”
Despite her continual insistence, his grandmother’s health was not an issue. Her eyesight, yes. She struggled with vision these days.
“Every breath, I come closer to death. Every breath, he passes me over. But soon I vill be gone and you vill be alone. You break my heart, Jason. I vill see you married.”
“I had a wife. Don’t need another.” Nope. Been there. Done that.
“Your vife, she vas no good. You need good vife.” Babushka nodded along with herself.
Whenever she brought up his love life, it never boded well. In fact, it usually meant a parade of women would soon slink through the door to try and convince him Babushka was right. Which meant: deflect and get the hell out of there.
“Actually, I met someone new.” Truth was in the eye of the beholder, and hehadmet someone new. Heather. Granted, he’d officially “met” her over a year ago. Details. Details.
“You did this? Ven?” Babushka paused wrecking his flowers to focus her attention on him.
“Things got serious so fast. It didn’t work out. I need some time to deal with it.” Truer words had never been spoken. Sort of. “My heart’s a little raw.”
“Who did this thing?” Babushka’s eyes narrowed.
“The lady who owns the cookie shop across the street. It’s over. Done. I’m going to lick my wounds for a while.” And that was how it was done. He’d bought himself a few solid weeks of heartbreak.
Babushka smacked his shoulder. “You did not tell me of this voman.”
