“China Roses.” He eases a flower from the tall steel pot and tucks it behind my ear. Oh. My. God. Wait until Meghan hears about this.
I point to a lily. “These are pretty, too.”
I try to keep my voice light but it comes out husky and I clear my throat, embarrassed that he has such an effect on me. Embarrassed, but delighted, too. The lilies remind me of my granny’s house – well, how it used to be, before she got ill. The petals are splayed out proudly, white edges bleeding into dark pink centres.
Tommy shakes his head, frowning. “Not lilies. They’re death flowers.”
“Are they?” I ask. “I didn’t know that.”
Tommy smiles faintly. “My moth – mum – taught me about flowers. You know flowers used to have their own kind of secret language? Floriography, it was called.” He traces an idle finger along a rope of ivy. “People would send tussie-mussies to one another, in the Victorian times.”
“Tussie-mussies?” I laugh – it sounds even more ridiculous when I say it.
“Yeah, it means talking bouquets. The flowers in the bouquet would each have a special meaning for the recipient. Like a secret language.”
“That’s kind of cool.” I try to sound casual, sensing my chance to learn a little bit more about him. “Do you live with her? Your mum, I mean.”
“No.” His voice is low and a current of sadness runs below it. “She died when I was younger.”
“Oh, God, Tommy. I’m so sorry. . .”
“It’s fine.” He waves the apology off and takes hold of my fingers again, loosely. “It was years ago.”
“That must have been so hard for you.”
“Yeah.” His eyes glaze over, as he’s lost to a memory. “I miss her.”
“I’ll bet.”
Silence lingers between us, but it’s not awkward. It’s comforting, like sharing a secret with an old friend. For a second, I could swear I’d known him forever.
“Come on then,” I say. “I want to hear more about this secret language of flowers. What about this?”
I pick up a bundle of small purple flowers, tied with brown string, and revel in the calming smell. Lavender.
“No, not good either.” He laughs, back to his old self. “Lavender means caution, mistrust. You’re really bad at this, you know.”
“You’d better teach me, then.” I begin to drag him around the little stall, pointing out flowers for him to decode. He stops in his tracks and pulls me back towards him.
“There’s a reason I chose the China Rose for you.” He reaches up and lightly brushes the petals in my hair. I hold my breath, to stop it coming out in little gasps, my stomach tensing. “Don’t you want to know why?”
“Why?” I manage.
“It means you’re beautiful,” he whispers, sending ripples across my skin, “just the way you are. Your eyes, these freckles. . .” Light fingers cup either side of my face and he strokes gentle thumbs from my nose across my cheeks to my hair, which he wraps around his fingers and tugs gently. “Your beautiful hair.” He fixes his gaze on my mouth and I swear I’m going to lose it as he leans towards me, his face almost touching mine. “Your lips,” he whispers.
I’m pretty sure there are fireworks going off somewhere when he touches his lips to mine. My body responds immediately, hungrily leaning into every part of him I possibly can. Little stars dance behind my eyes and I feel dizzy, lightheaded, I. . .
“Can I help you?”
I crash back to Earth as the voice breaks us apart. A small woman in a starched apron is eyeing us with amusement and I try to look everywhere apart from her face.
“Yes, please,” Tommy says smoothly. “I’d like to buy this beautiful girl some flowers.”
I don’t know if I want the ground to swallow me whole or if I should tap dance on it. The woman smiles indulgently.
“I’ve got just the thing.” She eyes the flower in my hair. “You’ll be taking that one, too, I assume?”
“Of course.” Tommy winks at me and I giggle. Seriously, who am I?
