Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“Like National Sandwich Day?”
Blinking, she straightens her shoulders like she’s been caught daydreaming in class, then squeaks out: “Sandwiches?”
“Surely you’ve heard of them. Those delicious things where bread is a wrapper for other food,” I say.
“Ah, yes. Thank you,” she says, deadpan.
“And . . . National Sandwich Day is only one of my favorite days of the year. It’s not yours?” I ask playfully.
“I’m not a fan of sandwiches,” she says, then shrugs, all no big deal style.
I exaggerate shock, dropping my jaw, then rubbing my ear. “I must have heard wrong. How could anyone dislike sandwiches?”
“It happens,” she says quickly, dismissing the topic. Maybe she had a bad experience with a sandwich. “But what are your other favorite days? Inquiring minds want to know.” She sounds fascinated, as if she’s wanted to discuss this with me for ages. Or maybe she’s just super keen not to discuss sandwiches.
But my answer is National Sixty-Nine Day. Is that a day of celebration? If not, it should be. “National Pajama Day,” I offer, tossing out something chaste. Or chaste-ish.
Veronica’s pretty green eyes twinkle. “Then how about this? For each day, we come up with a fun new saying about why you need flowers. Like this: It’s National Wear Your PJs to Work Day. Give your boss some pansies to get a PJ pass.”
“I like it,” I say, stoked by her idea. “Can you do that tomorrow?”
She holds up a finger to make a point. “I can, but tomorrow is National Burrito Day, and that’s not so flower-able. But there’s no reason we can’t make up national days too,” she says, a little devilishly. “I mean, who’s in charge of making up national days, anyway?”
“I applied for the position but didn’t get it,” I say.
She laughs. “Same here! But I bet we’d have been great at that job,” she says.
Oh sweetheart, I bet we’d have been great at lots of jobs.
“If I were in charge of the national days,” she goes on, “I’d deem tomorrow . . . National Get Out of Bed Day. And we can write: Did you brush your teeth today and put on pants this morning? Then celebrate with some flowers.”
“I’m glad you didn’t get the National Day gig, Veronica. Because that’s a good one. Want to use it tomorrow?”
She’s vibrating with energy. “Iris left me some of the pastel chalks. I could write it up on the chalkboard now, and we’ll post a pic overnight. See if it gets some traction in the early morning when people check Insta before they even roll out of bed.”
Smarts and sex appeal. Dating isn’t a game of Frogger. It’s Russian Roulette.
“That sounds perfect,” I say.
Grabbing the chalk and an eraser, she pops outside and tackles her project. When she’s done, she snaps a pic as the sun sets behind her.
She comes back in and stands next to me, showing me the shot on her phone. It’s a good picture, but I catch the scent of her hair, and I should definitely study the picture longer since I’m dying to know what that fragrance is . . .
Picking out scents in this shop calls for the nose of a sommelier, but I’ve got one, and pretty sure that’s not Bikes and Blooms flowers that I’m smelling.
It’s . . . orange blossom.
Just a faint trace of it from Veronica’s hair. Or maybe on her neck. Or her skin.
Stop!
I clear my throat, inch away from the tempting scent. “Great shot. Want to send it to me and I can post it?”
“I can do it now if you want. I mean, I’m not that dangerous on the Internet,” she says, and the corner of her lips twitch. There’s a hidden meaning there, but I’m busy trying to erase orange blossom from my memory bank.
After she sends me the pic, I give her my phone for posting but stay next to her. I learned a lesson or two from Callie, and I’m not about to hand over the keys to the social kingdom to just anyone yet.
“And tomorrow there’ll be a line around the block,” she says as she hands me back my phone.
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say.
A few minutes later, she leaves, then Zara takes off after her.
Whew. I lock the door once more, then I get as far away from the flowers as I can, working on a custom design for a while, letting bike grease fill my nostrils until I can’t smell oranges anymore.
I work until my phone pings at eight, reminding me I’m meeting my brother for a beer. After I take off my glasses, I wash up, and Trudy and I head out into the warm June night.
When I spot Bryan at an outside table at The Lucky Spot, he waggles a bottle my way. “I ordered for you. Figured you’d want to reward yourself for making it through your first few days. You better have been on good behavior,” he says, since he knows the story. I caught him up to speed when we went for a ride on the High Line over the weekend.