She powers through, carrying the bucket inside.
I bet most men would find this admirable.
She’s strong. She can take care of herself and her business. It’s good, but it’s infuriating.
“Would it kill you if you stood back and watched?” I ask, leaving the roses on the workbench she points to.
“I’m not sure; I never tried. Why are you making an issue out of this? I’ve always taken care of myself and I don’t need anyone doing it for me. I’m not helpless.”
“Never said you were, but it’sfineto accept help.”
“I accepted, didn’t I? You’re helping.”
My teeth gnash between my lips. It’s probably misogynistic or some such shit, but all I can think about is tying her to a chair then doing all the heavy lifting alone. I don’t want her straining herself. I don’t want her struggling.
I’m a man. Making her life easier is myjob.
The deep eleven marring her forehead is a clear indicator of an upcoming fight. With a grunt, I drop the subject, letting her win this round before it begins.
For the next five minutes, I avert my gaze whenever she lifts another bucket or else the vein on my neck will burst.
“What time do you open?” I ask, settling in to one of the two plush chairs in the tiny waiting area.
It’s inBloom’s corner, giving me a view of both the front and back entrance as well as the till and Bianca’s workstation. No one can enter without me noticing. My phone’s connected to the laptop in Bianca’s apartment, and the feed from outside the shop is on my screen.
“Nine,” she says, glancing at the clock that shows we have half an hour.
And we spend that half an hour in the utmost silence.
Bianca rushes around, preparing ribbons, tissue paper, tape, and a multitude of other things I can’t name. Once she’s done, with five minutes to spare before the doors open, she brings an armful of flowers from the back.
And it’s as if a switch has been flipped on her emotionless face.
She’sglowingas she carefully spreads roses and tulips across her workbench. There’s a spark in her eyes, a flush to her cheeks, a genuine thrill passing through her, evident by the excited hand-wringing and finger-twitching.
She picks out some white flowers I don’t recognize, every stem covered in tiny buds. Scrutinizing each one from every angle, she adds a few pink roses. The placement looks haphazard, but judging by the determination and focus on Bianca’s face, I don’t think there’s anything random about her process.
Every flower is expertly placed where she wants it, then shifted if it doesn’t quite fit. Two larger pink roses are next, then three pink flowers like oversized daisies. She keeps working, cutting the ends, twisting ribbons, adding green leaves, and I stare as if I’m witnessing the birth of the universe.
Finally, she wraps the bouquet in pink polka-dot tissue paper, ties yet another ribbon, andbeamsat her creation. The first genuine smile I’ve seen on her to date, despite spending every waking moment either with this girl or staring at her face on my screen for longer than I can count now.
Lifting her head to check the clock, she catches me staring and the glee drains from her features.
“Do you take orders online?” I ask as she crosses the room, placing the bouquet in a tall vase displayed in the window.
“No, why?” She flicks the sign hanging on the door fromclosedtoopen.
I jut my chin at the bouquet. “A regular customer?”
“Oh, no. I prepare a dozen or so bouquets every morning for those in a rush—usually men who forget an anniversary, birthday or other important celebration. They come, grab, and go. As you can imagine.”
I can’t imagine.
The men I’ve looked up to throughout my life have been devoted and never missed important occasions. My father showers my mother with gifts, flowers, and affection. Dante drowns Layla in gifts just because. Carter and Broadway never fail to spoil their girls. Forgetting an anniversary or birthday doesn’t sound like something that happens often.
At least not to my ears.
Bianca settles behind her workbench, surveying the remaining flowers. There’s enough to conjure at least five bouquets the same size as the first. She grabs a few long-stemmed red roses and suddenly I’m curious.
