25
Wyatt
2018
The fucking flowers keep arriving. Sometimes Thomas takes them home for his wife, but most of the time, they land in my garbage can. How dare Hayley keep doing this? Who does she think she is? I warned her and that eccentric assistant of hers I did not want them, but like clockwork, they keep coming. The colors are offensive; the thought that went into them even more so. The cards become more frustrating to decipher. It’s like they are trying to tell me something. I should go over there and tell her what I think of her crappy flowers. I’ll do just that.
I grab the keys to my truck. “Tom, I’m out for the rest of the day.”
“Sure thing, boss.” The older man gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
The drive to Seattle is an inconvenience, and the traffic is slow. I hate traffic. I hate everything it seems. I switch the radio on, and Labrinth’s “Jealous” plays. That song frustrates me, so I turn it off. It’s too sad. Life is one big sad fest, and I’m in the middle of it. The thing is, I gave her what she wanted, didn’t I? I stayed away so she could get on with Logan. She might not have married the guy, but there’s no doubt they have a kid together, and that means something.
I swing open the shop door, and the kid cocks an eyebrow. That one is as feisty as her mother is.
“Can I talk to a grown up?”
“You can talk to me, Mister. I’m in charge.”
I don't have time for this. I make my way to the back of the store. The scent of flowers assaults my senses, and I sneeze.
“You sure don’t like flowers, do you?” I turn to find her standing with her hands on her hips.
She’s a cute thing. Brown curls and large, pretty hazel eyes that are fiery.
“How old are you, anyway?” I ask.
“Old enough to whip your sorry ass.”
“London!” The guy I’d shouted at makes his way forward.
I want to laugh.
“Sorry, the kid’s into movies.”
“Well, her parents should definitely censor what she watches.” I frown at her, only to have her stick her tongue out.
“Get back to work, Carlson!” the little girl demands, and I cannot help but burst into laughter.
“You’re impossible, aren’t you?” I lean down till I’m at eye level. “What’s your name? Lara Croft?”
“No, it’s London,” she says.
“That’s a pretty name.”
She scrunches her nose. “It’s not even a name. It’s a place. That’s what the kids at school say. They say I don’t have a real name.”
“Well, they’re assholes,” I laugh.
Carl clears his throat. “She is seven years old; you do realize that?”
I wave him off. “The next time someone says that, you punch them right in the gut.”
“My mommy says violence should be the last answer.”
“She might be right . . .” I shrug.
I stand, and she runs off to the counter. “Is Hayley Wells here?” I ask the guy.
