“I’m aware.”
“So, would her name be Lexie?”
“Yes. Someone sent her red roses, and I want to know who’s poaching.”
“Gabby Parker, you know I can’t tell you that.”
“First of all, if you know me well enough to dare call me Gabby, a name you should have stopped using when I turned three, then you can tell me who sent my intended flowers.”
“Intended? Are you serious about this girl? Are you engaged?”
Oh, shit. Margery Fleur is the wrong person in which to confide. She’s the biggest gossip this side of the Mississippi. “Not yet. Soon. So, don’t go blabbing and ruining the surprise.”
“Well, if I were you, I’d get on that. The person who sent her those flowers was ahotty. Besides, he paid in cash and specifically said he wanted to remain anonymous until he was, and I quote, ‘ready to make his move.’ Isn’t that romantic?
Hearing a sixty-five-year-old woman call a man a ‘hotty’ is not good. “Sounds like a stalker to me. How old was he?”
“Early thirties, I’d guess. I’d also say he’s better looking than you are as well. Bigger. Broader. Taller.”
“Wow, what is he, eight feet tall?”
“I’d say closer to six-four.”
“I’m six-three.”
“Good for you, Gabby. Alright, my flowers aren’t going to arrange themselves. Good talk.”
She hangs up the phone before I can get any more information out of her. “Damn it.” I’m going to have to step up my game with Miss Cartwright. She’s suddenly become a hot commodity and I don’t share. Ever.
