I’d be more pressed about it, but as I hear my mom say, “Willow isn’t here, Parker,” from behind me, I can’t find the capacity to care at the moment.
Wes’s gaze darts from me to my mother, narrowing with confusion as he assesses the situation at hand. She’s turned herback to us, speaking quietly, but there is no doubt Weston’s hearing every word.
“She’s okay, I promise,” Mom continues.
I shoot Weston a sickly-sweet smile. “A bouquet of what?”
“I understand you’re concerned, but if she wanted to reach out to you she would?—”
Weston frowns, brow furrowing as he overhears what my mother is saying.
I loudly clear my throat, drawing his attention back to me.
His eyes flash to mine. “Uh . . . flowers?”
I can’t tell if his aversion to this interaction is because he’s trying so hard to eavesdrop on my mother, or if it’s just because he can’t stand me.
“Please don’t call again, Parker.” Mom sighs from behind me, and a small portion of the anguish bubbling inside my veins settles itself.
“Whatkindof flowers?” I ask Weston.
He’s still watching my mother as she slides the phone into her pocket, facing the two of us with a placating smile before excusing herself to her office, and promising me she and I will talk at home.
Weston drags his eyes back to me. A long second ripples between us as he studies me for some sort of reaction to the conversation he’s just overheard, and I’ve tried my hardest to pretend wasn’t happening at all.
His gaze searches my face for something, and I’m not sure what he finds within it, but finally, he mutters, “Honestly... I don’t know. They’re for Penelope. I’m meeting her for lunch next door. I thought it would be nice to surprise her with...” He runs a hand through his hair.
I’m just grateful he chose not to press me for more information regarding the situation he walked in to.
I’ve seen Weston twice since Friday. I ran into him one morning while he was leaving the beach and I was heading down to it. He gave me one of those closed-lip smiles and curt nods that you offer strangers who pass you on a hiking trail.
Then I ran into him outside my parent’s garage one morning when I was returning one of the paddleboards. Sometimes I go out to the harbor on the north end of Pacific Shores for a change of scenery. When I got back, Weston was stepping out of the shower my dad built outside the back door of the garage.
That interaction was definitely awkward for both of us. He was shirtless. I was drooling. I was exiting the back door as he was leaving the shower stall, and we caught each other off guard. He startled, inhaling so sharply he began coughing. My mouth dried out at the sight of him wearing nothing but a towel, slung so low over his hips I could make out the V that led from his stomach and down to his. ..
I shake off the thought.
“That is nice. It’s thoughtful,” I say softly, forcing my brain to find some other plane of existence outside fear over Parker’s unwelcome resurfacing, and curiosity over Weston’s sculpted body. “Here...” I walk around the counter to the buckets of flowers that line the floor beneath the front windows. “Penelope loves daisies.” I grab a handful. “Sunflowers.” I pluck two of those from their bucket. “Her favorite color is green,” I add, pulling a stem of eucalyptus from a bundle. “Maybe... a few pink cosmos for a pop of brightness?” I hold the bundle out to him. “What do you think?”
He tilts his head, studying them intently. “Looks good.”
I nod, walking back to the counter, laying them out and trimming the stems before wrapping the bouquet in construction paper and tying it together with white twine.
“How do you know what her favorite flowers are?”
“I’ve known Penelope my whole life,” I say, turning around. “I guess we just absorb information about people we care for over the years.”
He chews on the inside of his cheek as he pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his worn jeans. They fit him too well. “Is it bad that I don’t know what her favorite flowers are?”
“I don’t know. Do you know other things about her?”
I trade his card for the flowers, entering the price for a standard arrangement and subtracting the employee discount before running it.
“I know how she takes her coffee, and I know she doesn’t like to eat breakfast but likes eating breakfast food for lunch. Her favorite artist is Georgia O’Keeffe, and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon are her favorite Wonder of the Ancient World.”
“See? I didn’t know any of those things about her. We all absorb different information.”
Although, I did know her favorite artist was O’Keeffe, she helped me write an essay for my advanced art history course after my professor told me I needed to study someone other than Monet—who is my favorite.
