“You made me do it, you maniac!”
“Seriously, could you be a bigger asshole?! I am going to fucking kill you!”
I sit bolt upright in bed, listening to the angry yells echo through the wall from the living room.
What the hell is going on?
“Please,” I hear Katie say in a calm voice. “No one gets ahead from screaming. Lily, you’ll have your chance to tell Chad how he made you feel in a moment. Right now, it’s his turn.”
“Yeah, well,” a deep voice—Chad, clearly—speaks up. “If you killed me, I wouldn’t have to share an apartment with such a shrill witch! Goddamn rent control!”
Lily shrieks a string of really colorful profanities as I throw on my robe and open my bedroom door an inch. There’s Katie, standing in the living room. She’s positioned between a man and woman who are poised to lunge and scratch each other’s eyes out.
“Umm, Katie?” I ask.
She looks up. “Kind of busy here!”
“I gathered. But seriously, WTF?”
Her face twists in apology. “These are my new clients, the ones I forgot to tell you were coming here for breakup mediation. Sorry!”
“OK. Just . . . don’t break anything.”
I duck into the bathroom, get ready, and slip out while Chad and Lily are still screaming the place down. By the time I arrive at the flower shop with a croissant and two coffees, Remy is opening up. I hand him his cup. “Black, just like your dark, dark soul.”
He laughs, taking the cup. “Thanks, boss.”
“So, what’s on the schedule?” I ask, following him inside and flipping on the lights.
“Didn’t you get my message?” Remy asks. “We got a last-minute booking, a big gender reveal party.”
“What? When?” I gasp, panicking.
“Tonight. But don’t worry!” Remy adds. “I already called it in with Morty. He should be here with the delivery any minute; two thousand blush-pink roses. I’ll need to prep them and take them out to Brooklyn Heights to set up in the big flashy display.”
I exhale. “OK. Well. Good job!” I remember to say.
The bell on the door jingles and I turn to greet Morty.
It’s not Morty. It’s so not Morty.
“Seth?” I ask. Clear my throat. Try again. “Seth? What are you doing here?”
He smiles. “Just thought I’d check in. See how you are, if you’ve been eaten by wild bears.”
“What now?” I frown.
“You know, because I can’t think of any other reason why you’re blowing James off.”
“Oh.” I sigh. “That.”
“So you are blowing him off,” Seth says.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I remind him. “But yes. I was hoping he’d get the hint.”
“But I thought your date went amazingly!” Seth protests. “Come on, a moonlit carriage ride in Central Park? What’s not to like?”
“Uh, the cold, the bumpy ride, the smell of horse dung . . .” I offer.
“Spoilsport,” he shoots back, grinning.
And for a moment, I want a do-over. That carriage ride . . . but with Seth, instead.
Luckily, the bell over the door sounds again, breaking my ill-judged fantasy. This time it is Morty, the weathered old delivery man. I’m fairly sure he’s worked at the flower terminal since before God actually invented flowers. He comes in, clipboard in hand.
“Hey, April,” he says, “I have a whole truckload of pink roses for you.”
“Thanks, Morty,” I say with a smile, before I turn to Seth and give him a look that I hope communicates that I don’t have time for any more of his games. “Thanks for stopping by. In the future, when you decide to wonder about my romantic life? Don’t.”
I start to follow Morty out to the truck.
“April, wait.” Seth follows me. “Come on, at least tell me what was wrong with James.”
“Nothing was wrong,” I say, sighing. “But I agreed to one date. I fulfilled that agreement. Can you please get out of my way? I have work to do.”
Morty pulls up the big rolling door at the back of the truck, and I climb inside to inspect the flowers. Yes! I can tell from first glance that they’re perfect—fresh and plump, the gorgeous pink color just for the gender reveal. Even if I do think those parties are weird, this order will set us right for the rest of the month.
“Thanks, Morty. These are great.”
I sign off on the delivery, and Morty starts unloading them onto the sidewalk.
“Now can we talk about James?” Seth asks.
“If you want to stick around and help, then sure,” I tell him. Seth grabs a bucket and starts hauling.
Just then, Remy comes running out the front door. “STOP!”
“What?” I look up at the panic on his face.
“It’s a boy! It’s a boy!”
I gasp. “NOOOOOO.”
“Yes.” Remy nods, panting. “I’m sorry, I must have messed up! The client just called to confirm tonight’s gender reveal for the baby boy.”
Remy is normally the epitome of chill. He’s never panicked. But as we look down at the massive—and massively wrong —order, he panics. We both do.
I rush around to Morty.
“I’m sorry, April,” he says, anticipating what I’m about to ask—no, beg. “You’ve signed for them and I have more deliveries. I can’t take them back.”
“Morty!” I cry.
“I really am sorry,” he says, and I can tell he means it. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m helpless to do anything but watch as he gets in his truck and drives away, leaving two thousand ruinously expensive, completely useless roses on my front curb.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Is pink really so bad? Gender reveals are stupid, anyway,” Remy offers, probably trying to be helpful. “I thought we were beyond all this binary gender garbage. Haven’t we evolved at all?”
“Never mind evolution,” I wail. “We need to fix this.”
“How?”
“We need to dye them,” I decide.
“You can do that? Like paint?”
I turn. In all the chaos, I’d forgotten Seth was still standing there.
“Yes, you can dye them,” I say, frustrated. “But to color flowers we’d normally put dye in the water and let it travel up the stems to the blooms. It’s pretty standard process, but we don’t have the time—it takes hours and I need to be in Brooklyn by three.”
“So, what are you going to do?” Seth asks.
“Floral spray paint,” I decide. I turn to Remy. “Please tell me we have a ton of blue?”
He cringes. “Maybe two cans?”
I punch the button to open the cash register and give him everything in there, along with my credit card. “I’ll start, you go to the floral supply and get as much as you can. Light blue, dark blue—whatever. Just get as much as you can!”
Remy takes the money and the card and salutes. “On it.” Then he runs out the door.
“What can I do?” Seth asks.
I look over at him. He seems serious. “Either get out of my way, or help me get these roses in the back so I can start spraying them. All two thousand of them.”
His eyes widen as he seems to realize what we’re in store for.
“Yes, I’m serious,” I sigh as I bend down and pick up one of the heavy buckets with a grunt. “And I bet you thought being a florist was all sunshine and . . . well it is roses, but you know what I mean.”
His gives me a lopsided grin, which does something to my insides. Something I don’t have time to think about. “Clearly, I underestimated you.”
“Most people do,” I tell him. “Now, to work!”
Somehow, despite the odds, we manage to get every last rose sprayed. By the time we’re done, I can no longer feel my index fingers from holding the spray nozzles, and I want to cry from exhaustion, but all of the blush pink roses are now varying shades of blue: powder blue, sky blue, indigo, and midnight. They actually look really good.
I glance at Seth, smiling at the blue smudges on his hands and face. “You look like you just auditioned for Blue Man Group—and failed.”
He grins. “And you just got rejected from the Smurfs,” he replies, teasing.
I look up at the clock on the wall. “Damn, we’re going to be late.”
“I’ll get you there,” Seth says, confident.
I wipe my hands on a paper towel. “You’ve got a helicopter?”
“No, but I’m a great driver.”
I turn to Remy, who saved the day when he ran around all over lower Manhattan, buying up every can of blue floral paint (and even some blue hairspray left over from Halloween, just in case we needed more). “Are you OK to hold down the fort while I drive these out?”
He nods. “Sure thing.”
“Let’s load the van so I can get out of here.”
Seth helps us load the flowers into my shop van. It’s a tight fit, but we manage to get the back doors closed. I keep looking at my watch, worried. If I run into any traffic, I’m screwed. “Anyway, thanks for your help,” I say to Seth as I grab the driver’s door handle.
“I meant it,” he says, holding out his hand for the keys. “I’m a good driver. I can get you there. You won’t be late.”
I am about to argue, but then realize I don’t have the time. “Fine, hotshot,” I say, dropping the keys into his palm. I’m doubtful, but desperate.
“Have faith,” he says.
I’m barely buckled in when Seth peels out of the parking space. I always take several minutes to back out because I can’t afford to replace my sideview mirrors (again), but he races like he’s Vin Diesel out to save the world.
“Look out!” I shriek. “The mirrors!”
“Are fine,” he assures me, maddeningly calm. He gets on the road and hits the gas. Hard.
I grip the handle on the door, my eyes glued to the road in front of us. “Too fast!”
He grins over at me. “Calm down, do you want to get there?”
“In one piece!”
“Settle down, Grandma,” he scolds.
“Do you even have a licence?”
He glances at me. “For what?”
“To drive!”
“License, shmicense,” he says, taking a hand off the wheel to wave me off.
When I gurgle, he looks over and laughs. “Of course I have a license, April.”
I exhale in relief, though I keep my hand on the handle, still terrified as he zips this way and that—one time even going down an alley the wrong way.
“It’s the first thing they give you when you work for the CIA.”
I shoot him a glare. He laughs again.
“Kidding! It’s actually the second thing.”
“Jerk!” I say, but can’t help from smiling. Also, I realize after a few blocks that while he’s a fast driver, he’s also really controlled. Like, he really knows what he’s doing. “Did you drive professionally?” I ask.
He glances over at me and then back at the road. “No, I mean, I used to work on a golf course and booted around on carts a lot of the time. Otherwise, just an avid gamer. Grand Theft Auto.”
“Well, you’re a good . . . I mean, I guess I might not die.”
He barks a laugh. “Why, April! That almost sounds like a compliment.”
“Hmph,” I say, grinning. “It’s meant as one. Although . . .” I gasp as he nearly sideswipes a cab. “Maybe I should wait until we arrive!”
We do. And in record time. It’s still cutting it closer than I like, and I feel flustered and out of sorts as I dash up to the brownstone door and ring the doorbell.
It’s then that I realize I forgot to check my face for blue paint.
The door opens, and a very pregnant woman steps out. “Bloom?” she asks, hopeful.
“That’s us,” I say, my heart still pounding. “Right on time.”
“Come on in,” she says, “We’re just getting set up.”
Seth and I grab some flowers, and follow her inside . . . to what is the fanciest party I’ve ever seen. Balloons, catering staff, and a buffet table to die for.
“This kid isn’t even born yet, and he’s getting all this?” Seth whispers.
I elbow him, but I agree. “Shall we set up in here?” I ask the client, taking out the first roses.
She gasps.
“Is . . . everything OK?” I venture.
“Oh, no . . . the flowers . . . they’re just . . .” And then she dissolves into tears. Big, fat, sloppy tears.
OMG! I think, my stomach lurching. The flowers are wrong! The client is going to tell me it’s a girl after all and where are her blush-pink roses?!
I’m gearing up for a very serious meltdown. Very. Serious.
“Are you OK?” Seth asks gently.
She nods, wiping her tears. “Oh, yeah, of course. Pregnancy hormones,” she says, starting to smile. A smile! We’re saved! “What I was trying to say is that they’re perfect. I love how they’re all different shades of blue. You’ve completely exceeded my expectations!”
“Lindsey!” a male voice calls out. “Can you come in here and check on the tablecloths?”
“My husband.” She rolls her eyes. “Jesus, you’d think growing a whole human is enough but now I have to make decisions about tablecloths?” She laughs, kind of hysterically, before she ambles out of the room.
I gasp for air, my heart racing. “Oh my God!” I exclaim. “I thought we were screwed for sure!”
“Me too!” Seth gapes. “When she started crying . . .”
“I know!” I grab his arm. “You think she could have started with the whole ‘they’re perfect’ part. I was just about ready to pass out!”
“Maybe that’s all the paint fumes you’ve been huffing,” Seth teases.
“Don’t!” I laugh. “My hands are going to be stained blue for a week.” I gulp another breath, overcome with relief . . . and gratitude. “Thank you,” I tell him, throwing my arms around his neck. “Seriously, I couldn’t have made it without you.”
“I was happy to help.” Seth draws back and grins at me, and maybe it’s the adrenaline still pumping, or those pesky paint fumes, but suddenly, I realize that I’ve got my arms around him . . . His lips, only inches away . . .
And then, to my utter surprise, we’re kissing.
Like, really kissing.
I can’t tell who made the first move, but does it matter now? His mouth is hot and sweet on mine, his hands sliding around my waist, and his torso deliciously taut against me. I kiss him harder, our lips parting, his tongue sliding deep—
“AHEM,” someone shout-coughs behind us. It’s the caterers with armloads of supplies.
“Coming through!”
Seth and I leap apart like we’ve been burned. “Umm,” I stutter, flushing bright red. “I, uh, um . . .”
What the hell just happened?
“I should go,” Seth blurts, looking as freaked out as I feel. “So. Um. Stay cool!”
“Stay cool!” I echo, staring after him as he hightails it out of there.
“Lady?” the caterer says. “When you’re done mooning over there, can you hurry up and move your van before the ice cream cake melts?”