Love Unrehearsed
Page 149
“Maybe. But why me?”
“He knew you were smart and savvy; I wouldn’t be surprised if there is a small fortune with your name on it.”
I groaned. Not another estate to deal with.
“He probably figured you’d do good things with his money, Tar. He didn’t have any children or family; who else could he leave it to?” I heard someone speaking to Ryan in the background. “Listen, hon, I’ve got to go.
I’ll call you later.”
Marie carried our little stepstool behind the bar. “I heard you say you wanted to put Jimmy Pop up there. We can move the Patrón and Cabo Wabo over and then you’ll have room.”
She handed down a bottle just as another flower delivery was being made. Mike had sent flowers to Marie only two days ago; I wondered if he was kissing up for a specific reason.
This batch of flowers, however, was less than impressive. It looked like the kind you buy at the grocery store.
The deliveryman was tall and young, maybe mid-thirties, but with severely thin-ning brown hair that did that eight-strand greased comb-over on the bald head thing.
He wore tinted glasses that were too large for his face. He might have had those same glasses since they were popular in the eighties. What was even creepier was that he was completely focused on me.
I was glad there was a thick bar separating us. “Can I help you?”
He was nervous; I could see his jitters physically shaking him. “I have flowers a . . .
a delivery, Tah . . .” He seemed slightly confused as his eyes locked on mine. “For you.” Marie came down off the ladder, immediately putting him under her scrutiny. We had just opened the bar for business and there were no customers.
I nodded at the bouquet. “Thank you. You can leave them at the end of the bar there, okay?”
The deliveryman didn’t move, just continued to oddly stare at me with a deer-caught-in-headlights look.
Marie’s gaze was guarded as she scanned him with trepidation. “What flower shop do you work for? There is never a store name on the ones you deliver.”
He took a step backward, appearing ready to flee, as she took a step forward, reaching her hand in the two-and-a-half-inch gap between the top of the new front-load cooler and the underside of the bar.
“I, um . . . they’re for Ms. Mitchell. I’m . . .
I just wanted to give her . . . flowers.” I watched Marie out of the corner of my eye, hesitant to take my eyes off the stranger.
Marie’s hand obviously found what she was looking for; her hand started to withdraw.
He was wearing a short-sleeved, blue button-down shirt and what looked like uniform pants, but nothing about what he wore indicated he was a deliveryman. “They’re just flowers,” he continued to explain. “Women like men who bring them flowers. It’s cus-tomary. It’s part of the whole wooing process.”
Marie’s questioning glare was agitating him. I wanted him to drop off his stupid flowers and leave. He was creeping me out.
“Thank you for the flowers. They’re lovely.” I tried to smile, hoping that would be enough to let him know I was appreciative. “But, sorry, I can’t accept them. I’m engaged and not—”
“Taryn,” Marie snapped in a hushed whisper.
“I’ve been trying different ones,” he continued to mutter, talking to the flowers this time.
What?
“I know you hate daisies and carnations.
Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson with those. They always end up in the Dumpster in the alley. You tend to keep the roses longer—like a week until they wilt. I check to see which ones you don’t like all the time. Do you press them in books?”
Press them? He’d lost me. I’d never seen any roses or any other flowers for that matter. “Pardon?”
“The ones you keep?” His mouth turned up into a quirky smile. “The red ones? There were a dozen but only ten were thrown away.
I counted them. It upset me at first that you’d just toss them away, but then I realized that it was the flowers you didn’t like. I know you can’t keep them all, even though I hoped you would. If you put them in wax paper they keep longer. I’ll only get you roses from now on.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what—”
“They remind me of your lips—soft and red. You kept the red ones the longest.” Marie waved her hand low and urgently at me. “I’ll handle this, Taryn,” she growled out, never taking her eyes off the guy.
He frowned at Marie, glaring at her.
“He knew you were smart and savvy; I wouldn’t be surprised if there is a small fortune with your name on it.”
I groaned. Not another estate to deal with.
“He probably figured you’d do good things with his money, Tar. He didn’t have any children or family; who else could he leave it to?” I heard someone speaking to Ryan in the background. “Listen, hon, I’ve got to go.
I’ll call you later.”
Marie carried our little stepstool behind the bar. “I heard you say you wanted to put Jimmy Pop up there. We can move the Patrón and Cabo Wabo over and then you’ll have room.”
She handed down a bottle just as another flower delivery was being made. Mike had sent flowers to Marie only two days ago; I wondered if he was kissing up for a specific reason.
This batch of flowers, however, was less than impressive. It looked like the kind you buy at the grocery store.
The deliveryman was tall and young, maybe mid-thirties, but with severely thin-ning brown hair that did that eight-strand greased comb-over on the bald head thing.
He wore tinted glasses that were too large for his face. He might have had those same glasses since they were popular in the eighties. What was even creepier was that he was completely focused on me.
I was glad there was a thick bar separating us. “Can I help you?”
He was nervous; I could see his jitters physically shaking him. “I have flowers a . . .
a delivery, Tah . . .” He seemed slightly confused as his eyes locked on mine. “For you.” Marie came down off the ladder, immediately putting him under her scrutiny. We had just opened the bar for business and there were no customers.
I nodded at the bouquet. “Thank you. You can leave them at the end of the bar there, okay?”
The deliveryman didn’t move, just continued to oddly stare at me with a deer-caught-in-headlights look.
Marie’s gaze was guarded as she scanned him with trepidation. “What flower shop do you work for? There is never a store name on the ones you deliver.”
He took a step backward, appearing ready to flee, as she took a step forward, reaching her hand in the two-and-a-half-inch gap between the top of the new front-load cooler and the underside of the bar.
“I, um . . . they’re for Ms. Mitchell. I’m . . .
I just wanted to give her . . . flowers.” I watched Marie out of the corner of my eye, hesitant to take my eyes off the stranger.
Marie’s hand obviously found what she was looking for; her hand started to withdraw.
He was wearing a short-sleeved, blue button-down shirt and what looked like uniform pants, but nothing about what he wore indicated he was a deliveryman. “They’re just flowers,” he continued to explain. “Women like men who bring them flowers. It’s cus-tomary. It’s part of the whole wooing process.”
Marie’s questioning glare was agitating him. I wanted him to drop off his stupid flowers and leave. He was creeping me out.
“Thank you for the flowers. They’re lovely.” I tried to smile, hoping that would be enough to let him know I was appreciative. “But, sorry, I can’t accept them. I’m engaged and not—”
“Taryn,” Marie snapped in a hushed whisper.
“I’ve been trying different ones,” he continued to mutter, talking to the flowers this time.
What?
“I know you hate daisies and carnations.
Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson with those. They always end up in the Dumpster in the alley. You tend to keep the roses longer—like a week until they wilt. I check to see which ones you don’t like all the time. Do you press them in books?”
Press them? He’d lost me. I’d never seen any roses or any other flowers for that matter. “Pardon?”
“The ones you keep?” His mouth turned up into a quirky smile. “The red ones? There were a dozen but only ten were thrown away.
I counted them. It upset me at first that you’d just toss them away, but then I realized that it was the flowers you didn’t like. I know you can’t keep them all, even though I hoped you would. If you put them in wax paper they keep longer. I’ll only get you roses from now on.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what—”
“They remind me of your lips—soft and red. You kept the red ones the longest.” Marie waved her hand low and urgently at me. “I’ll handle this, Taryn,” she growled out, never taking her eyes off the guy.
He frowned at Marie, glaring at her.
