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)
He sets a reassuring hand on my shoulder as we walk. “You’re hyperventilating, Milo.” He’s a gentle giant, and I’m a wound-up jack-in-the-box.
Deep breath.
“What do I do?” I ask, but my stupid voice is pitching up, up, up.
“Slow down. Breathe,” he says.
I take another big gulp of hot, sticky summer air, chased by bus fumes.
Not helping, New York.
I glance at my pup, trotting gamely ahead of me without a care in the world.
I can’t swing through life carefree, like I’ve done for the last week with Veronica. I’m not a dog. I’m a man with a fledgling business, and employees, and a reputation I’m rebuilding.
When we reach Seventh Avenue, I hug Trudy then hand Bryan the leash. “Thanks again.”
He yanks me in for an embrace. “Try to unwind when you’re on your ride. Maybe you just need a few days to clear your head.”
It’s probably good advice, but when I get to work, Zara tells me the bike blogger called and wants his new wheels two days early.
As in . . . today.
I put on my glasses and get to work.
A few hours later, I’m this close to finishing the custom build for Rio, the bike blogger. He’s coming in an hour. Once he tests the bike, I should be able to take off.
As I’m threading the chain in the back of the shop, my phone trills with Iris’s ringtone.
Weird. She rarely calls. She’s a classic texter. With the chain locked in, I wipe my hand on a rag in time to answer. “Hey mama, what’s cooking?”
As I step into the doorway of the shop, checking out the bikes and the blooms, Iris sighs heavily. “Milo, I’m sorry to do this but yesterday was so hard for me.”
My brow knits. “What do you mean?”
“I missed Danny too much,” she says, her voice trembling. “I don’t think I’m ready to come back to work.”
I grab the wall of the shop to steady myself. “You . . . don’t want to return?” I ask, as Veronica swings her gaze to me from the counter where she’s working.
“I wanted to give you as much notice as possible,” Iris continues. “But I don’t think I can come back full-time. I only want to work on Saturdays.”
Iris has been so passionate about the shop since I started it. I never thought she’d drop to part-time. Now I’ll have to hunt for a replacement
Again.
Ohhh. Duh.
The answer to Veronica’s temporary work need is staring at me.
The answer to mine is staring at me too.
“I totally understand, Iris,” I say, then after we finish the details and I hang up, Veronica shoots me a sympathetic look. “She isn’t ready to come back?”
I nod weakly, still reeling a bit from the surprise. “I should have seen this coming. But I didn’t. That seems to be the theme for today,” I admit with a shrug. I glance toward the door, then at the chalkboard sign beyond, then back to the woman I adore. I already mixed business with pleasure into a giant soup of feelings and fear. At this point, what kind of schmuck would I be not to offer her the gig? “You’re the best thing to ever happen to the blooms in Bikes and Blooms. Do you want to stay until . . . you figure out your next move?”
“I would but—”
The door swings open and the mother of all complications walks in.
28
Call It Good
Milo
* * *
What does she want now? My head swims with new worries as Callie strides toward me like she owns the flooring, the ceiling, and all the shelves, flowers, and bikes.
This woman should be required to carry a whip to warn others what she’s like.
Instead, she’s full con artist, decked out in costume so damn innocently—pink Converse sneakers, khaki shorts, and a tank top. When she reaches me in the middle of the flower shop, she flashes a megawatt smile.
This is the only time I’m grateful for a lull in foot traffic. There are no customers shopping for buds. But Zara looks up from the bike counter, then walks around it, flanking me like a bodyguard.
Callie tilts her head, her eyes sweeping my face. “Milo, sweetheart. You have grease on your cheek. I swear, you’re such a cute, hot mess. Last time it was glitter. Let me help you,” she says, lifting a hand.
Flinching, I step away. “What do you want?” I bite out.
She pouts. “Is that any way to greet one of your business partners?”
“Excuse me?”
Smoothly, she gestures toward the shop in the back, where the wheels for Rio’s ride are visible through the open door. “I follow you online, and I’m so excited to see your custom bike business is growing. It’s thrilling.”
Zara crosses her arms. “Because Milo works hard at it,” she growls.
Callie’s smile ripens. “Hard work is so important, and so are ideas,” she says, then sighs, a long, horrifyingly self-satisfied one. “Like how I gave you the idea for the custom bike business.”