Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 199(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 199(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
“Grief. Probably a wife if he went full fruit and nut on ya,” Iris murmurs suddenly, shaking her head.
She pulls me closer to her with her bony arm around me, asking me again if I’m sure I’m okay.
“I thought you were going to say he’s in love,” I remark with feigned sarcasm, trying to laugh but only making a dry, cracking sound.
Voicing my own thoughts only because I don’t want to believe it, even if it is true. Somehow, the idea of James being with someone else just hurts.
“Love? Grief…? They’re the same, kiddo,” Iris says dryly.
“It’s because we love someone so much that we grieve,” she adds.
She cements the idea by her own say so that James Jones is the grieving widower. Somehow, as much as I’m ashamed to admit it, the thought makes me happy in a way.
Whoever she is… was. She’s dead now.
Good.
Bitch.
“He didn’t say anything about anyone dying, though,” I say once Iris finishes comforting me and moves for the door.
“If he was in love, why would he care what Theo was doing here?” Iris challenges me, shaking her head with conviction.
“No. It’s grief that makes people fly off the handle sometimes and for no reason,” Iris says in her wisest tone.
“Love, on the other hand…,” she adds cryptically, rolling her eyes to the ceiling and smiling to herself, deliberately leaving me hanging before she gives me a sly wink and disappears back to her coffee shop in silence.
What would love make a man like James Jones do?
I’m left wondering that myself, apologizing to the man upstairs for feeling happy that someone might have actually died, but only because it would mean James is single now.
As if I’d stand a chance.
But I don’t think he’s grieving.
Iris is right about a lot of things, but she didn’t feel the man’s lips on her hand. Didn’t see that look in his eyes, and I’m sure as hell hoping a woman of her years wouldn’t have felt the same in her granny panties as I did in mine.
Plus, I didn’t exactly tell her just how James was acting before he went off the rails. How happy he looked.
How… flirty he was?
Nah.
No, Jasmine, don’t even go there. He was not flirting with you, so just stop it. A man like James will never be interested in a girl like you!
I close my eyes with a sigh. The memory of him still makes me flush between my legs.
The insanely good cologne he wore was still hanging in the air.
The buzz of his touch, those lips still lingering on my hand. My whole body was aching for that again, and everywhere, not just the back of my hand.
I have a mini daydream—the three- or four-second kind, picturing it all. The mental imagery is never enough to match the feelings.
The man. The things he’d do to me. The things he’d forgive me for when I tried to do them for him in my own clumsy way. The little castle in the clouds I afford myself before I heave my lids open.
Ready to try and forget it all, telling myself I have real-world problems and actual work to do, which is true.
I can dream about the perfect man later. I can also drown my sorrows about what will never be in a gallon of mint choc chip later if necessary.
Right now, this delicate flower is in work-to-be-done mode.
Once the phone rings, another customer comes in, picks out some flowers, and leaves. I remember I have a to-do list a mile long. I almost kid myself that my life can continue.
I can survive post-James Jones trauma syndrome and move on. But in reality, I know I cannot. Time stood still with James nearby.
A dark car pulls up silently out front, and I see a guy with a big head and beady eyes get out. I’m almost there. Almost back to my not-so-boring-after-all life.
Jasmine. Florist. Young business owner. A girl doing it on her own for and by herself.
Life goes on… I can live without…
Oh, my God…
Mr. Potato Head has a passenger. I see the profile through the window—the drizzling rain is like static against those chiseled features.
Huge guy. Well dressed. Regular shaped head, unlike his buddy.
Before he steps out, I know it’s him. Before he even locks eyes on me, I know.
It’s James, stepping out of the massive car and making it look like a toy. The rain looks like sparks arcing off him like I’m watching the most perfect man being made anew and coming back to me. Am I imagining this because I want it to be happening? I am so confused.
His friend bustles into the store as if the rain is acid, which it probably is, come to think of it, but James strides coolly, moving slowly into the store behind him. If that grin he’s sporting is anything to go by, he’s not grieving either.