HALLEY: I might throw you off the top of the Ferris wheel yet. Don’t get cocky.
ME: Who’s telling Reagan?
HALLEY: I will. I’ll tell her you kissed me and wore me down until I had no say in the matter.
ME: You won’t be lying.
HALLEY: Exactly. Now if you don’t mind, I want to get back to my book.
ME: Are you reading porn?
HALLEY: I’m reading romance. If you call my books porn again, I will beat you with them.
ME: Kinky.
HALLEY: Let me shove a hardback up your ass, and you tell me how kinky that is.
ME: Enjoy your romance.
HALLEY: I will if you stop texting me.
ME: Stop texting me.
HALLEY: This isn’t going to turn into some weird ‘you hang up’ ‘no you hang up’ thing. Goodnight, Preston.
ME: Oh, but it’d be so fun.
A few minutes passed, and there was no response from here. She really wasn’t kidding. I sent her one last text, hoping that I hadn’t made a huge mistake in asking her out.
ME: Night, crazy raccoon lady.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN – HALLEY
When Is a Date Not a Date?
I’d lost my damn mind.
That was the only explanation I had for the situation I found myself in. Spending all day in the booth, listening to Preston kissing other people, then going out with him tonight?
Why had I said yes?
Why had I agreed?
Butterflies had taken up permanent residence in my stomach. I felt like a teenager waiting for the boy she liked to answer her IM. Maybe add her name to his screen name or something.
It would have been so much easier to be a teenager having texting as the main means of communication. Teens today didn’t have to sit and see if their crush was online. Now, they sent a message and got on with their lives.
I blew out a long breath as I headed for The Wright Bouquet, the Wright family flagship store. I knew Reagan would be working and I really needed to talk this over with her.
I know. Speaking to my crush’s sister about the situation might be weird, but Ava wasn’t answering her phone, and I had to talk to someone.
Also, my mom was MIA, as usual, Abigail was already at the spa for some beauty treatments, and the raccoons really didn’t want to hear about my love life.
I needed a better social life, didn’t I?
Actually, ugh, no, I didn’t. The one I had was a little too much, if I was honest.
The bell over the door chimed when I pushed the door open with my hip. I was carrying two coffees and two cream cheese bagels, so I scooted in, inch by inch, careful not to the drop the coffees.
The sweet scent of hundreds of flowers mingling together hung in the air almost cloyingly. Hints of lavender tickled my nose as I made my way across the tiled floor to the counter where Reagan was clipping roses for the man standing in front of her.
I slipped off to the side and watched her work. It was painstaking work, and she missed every thorn like the expert she was. She set down her scissor-things and got to work wrapping them into a bouquet, tying it together with a big red ribbon.
I took the coffees out of the cup holder and set them on the counter near to the rose stem clippings, then took both the clippings and the cup holder to the trash can behind Reagan.
The guy thanked her and waved goodbye, and Reagan blew a breath up to get her bangs out of her eyes. She had a black and white hairband holding the rest of her long, purple hair back from her face, and the little bow on top of it was sticking up like rabbit ears.
“Long morning?” I questioned, handing her the paper bag that held her bagel.
“Don’t. The sooner this fair is over, the better.” She shook her head and took the food. “Thanks for this. I haven’t eaten yet.”
“What’s up?”
“That guy who was just here? He called at seven—freaking seven!—to ask if I could do him a bouquet because he was proposing to his girlfriend tonight.” She sighed. “He did tip me, which was weird, but eh.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve had an erratic bride concerned that six months before her wedding is too late to change her bouquet because she’s apparently allergic to lilies, a guy who was concerned that the arrangements for his mom’s funeral were too dark and dreary even though they include sunflowers, and a teenage boy asking how much a display that asks ‘prom?’ would be.”
“It’s nine-thirty, Reagan.”
“Exactly.” She picked up the coffee and stared at the plastic lid. “Is there whiskey in this?”
“Um, no. I don’t think Annie’s café offers that.”
“Life goal: we open a coffee shop that only serves spiked coffees. Rum, Baileys, whiskey… You name it.”
“Done.” I laughed and pulled a stool under my butt so I could sit down. “So, this visit isn’t entirely to brighten your day with caffeine and carbs.”