Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
He starts flirting with a drunken trio out for girls’ night.
I don’t even concern myself when Stan’s sloppy-ass hands poke one and prod the other as he teaches the women how to strike.
“Aliyah, your turn,” I tell her while sipping on a Shirley Temple.
“Lux, take my turn,” she says with Tommy’s arms wrapped around her from behind, and they sway in sync.
“No.” Stan comes back over from having flirted with another girl at the pool table next to us. “Aliyah, it’s your turn. You play.”
“Why because we’re winning?” I fold my arms, brows lifted.
“Bitch, watch your tone!” Stan growls.
At the ferocity of his tone, I drown in the metallic scent of blood. Momma’s body emerges in the distance, pierced with stab wounds. Usually, against my will, I draw closer in on myself. Tonight, a different darkness eddies around me.
“If you ever call me that again, you will not live to regret it.” A murderous light glints in my gaze. My knuckles tighten around my pool stick. After a cleansing breath, I place the cue on the table.
Tommy detaches himself from Aliyah. As he rounds on his irate cousin, I head over to the opposite end of the pool table to retrieve my purse. I’m not engaging with his type.
“Man, you need to treat my woman’s friend with some respect.” Tommy looks down at the shorter, angrier dude.
“Forget it,” I cut in, shouldering the loop. “You will never catch me fighting or arguing with a man.” All right, maybe I argued with Victor the other night. I’m still patting my back for the ‘walk on water’ line.
“Apologize,” Tommy hisses.
“Screw an apology. I’m gonna beat his ass.” Aliyah starts around Tommy, but his outstretched arm stalls her.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m out.” I can’t get out of the place fast enough. Once home, I’ll probably analyze which first date was worse—vicious Victor or simple-minded Stan.
Day Thirteen
At Urban Gardens, divine intervention is the only reason I can stomach Mr. Able’s latest tale.
Aliyah continually apologizes for Stan while my mind’s stuck on crawling under my bed. Yeah, I said it. Not underneath the covers, but physically get down on all fours, push away the dusty cobwebs and disappear till next winter. My day can’t get any worse until an intense stare caresses me from head to toe. I straighten up from repositioning a pot of hydrangeas to accommodate the space of sold-out lilies.
Victor.
Flaring my nostrils, I gain my composure, turning slowly.
Silence falls over Brooklyn.
In my little world, I imagine the people frozen in time. No cars dart between us as he stands on the opposite side of the street.
Desire washes me anew like I’m being baptized in the scent of him. I remember lying in the sex we created, so intoxicating, so captivated by him.
Victor has toned down his appearance, wearing dark wash denim. My vision coasts over the shirt and every aspect of his biceps and forearms.
I cross my arms to the involuntary shiver running down my spine. His sunglasses are my saving grace from being caught in his insufferable spell.
Damn, I should’ve looked my best today. Put that in your face, sucker. But that snarky statement’s not an option.
After sauntering across the street, Victor doesn’t come straight to me but approaches different sets of flowers, inspecting one here and there. I shove an unruly tress behind my ear and greet another customer who’s eyeing a large bouquet of roses.
Out of the corner of my eye, Victor continues his awful attempt at designing a bouquet. The color scheme is everything I was told not to do while obtaining a certificate as a florist. He saunters inside the store while I engage in a conversation about a Halloween event with a small-business owner whose appreciation for fresh-cut flowers at her essential-oil parties has helped me stay afloat throughout the seasons.
“Purple carnations would pair well with the orange roses for your centerpiece. What about something like we did for the Fourth? You found those amazing red, white, and blue floor vases in the nick of time.”
“The budget’s a little smaller for this event.” The brunette smiles, pinching her fingers.
“Let’s double down on the theme then.” I brighten up with excitement. Moments like this, I feel Momma’s presence. Well, this and baking sweets. “How about pumpkins instead of my vendor’s glass vases since you usually auction away the centerpieces.”
“Yeah! The vases can get pricey. Then we can add a couple of magnolias. Or will it clash? I mean, I know how you feel about magnolias. You’re always suggesting something better when I ask for them,” she says with a laugh.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I glance toward the shop. Inside, Aliyah’s assisting an older woman with a bouquet of get-well flowers at the register. Victor’s still thoughtfully crafting bright-colored flowers. On second thought, he’s finessing that bouquet.
I look down, trying to appear in thought, so my customer won’t notice the tears in my eyes. The day we learned the history of magnolias was the same day I found my mother dead. Whereas school taught us magnolias were believed to be the earliest known flower, predating pollination by bees, and epitomizes nobility in Chinese culture, for me, magnolias symbolize the promise I was going to make to my momma that day. The day I would tell her I would be majoring in floristry, and we would open the flower shop of her dreams. Though I never had the chance to utter that promise to her, it was one I had kept.