“I’m sorry?” Bell boy asks. He has a baby face and strawberry blond hair, and he’s cute in that boy-next-door sort of way. Well, maybe not inmyboy-next-door way, because the boy who lived next door to me was, and still is—thank you, Jesus—a complete fucking knockout.
“You’re taking that to 317, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Hamilton asked that it be promptly delivered to the room at eight p.m.”
“Yeah, here’s the thing,” I say. “When Mr. Hamilton ordered that, he was unaware his bride-to-be was a lying, cheating skank who would leave him at the altar. So at the risk of him losing his shit and trashing his hotel room, it’s probably best if you just turn around and take that back to the kitchen.”
The boy stares at me like I just kicked him in the shin. “But it’s already been paid for ...”
I pluck the pearly white “congratulations” card off the tray and fish out a pen from my clutch. “I tell you what—why don’t you take this to room 313? Her parents are staying just down the hall.” I make a lazy hand gesture in the direction of their suite, though for all I know I could have been pointing towards the service elevator because the man-child in the monkey suit is staring down the hall, looking confused. “Maybe they could usea drink after their daughter ran out on her fifty-thousand-dollar wedding.”
“I don’t think I can do that ...”
“Of course you can.” I place the newly edited card back on the tray and remove a couple of bills, shoving them in his shirt pocket. He balks when he reads my scrawled handwriting defacing the pristine card.
Congratulations!
Your daughter’s a whore.
“I can’t give them that.” The man-child shakes his head, and I lower my own to be able to read his name tag. Is it possible to suddenly become dyslexic? Because I think this might be a thing. Bran. That’s a weird-ass name, and in a city full of hipsters, you hear a lot of weird-ass names.
“Bran,” I slur, and throw an arm around his shoulder as if we’re buddies from way back.
“It’s Brian, actually.”
“Bra-in,” I correct and screw my face up, wondering why his parents would choose such a difficult name for their child. “I’ll give you all the money in my purse if you take that card and that cart to room 313.”
“Ma’am—”
I gasp loudly. The sound echoes down the empty hall. “You did not just call me ma’am. So not cool, dude. I’m young-ish. I’m hip, and I have totally great tits.” I grab the boobs in question and jiggle them to prove my point.
He licks his lips in what looks like a nervous gesture, his gaze darting to my cleavage and back to my face as if he’s afraid I might slap him for his efforts. “You ... you do. You have totally great tits.”
“Right?” I agree. “You can’t call a woman who has great tits ‘ma’am’. It’s soul destroying.”
“Sorry,” he says, but Bran doesn’t sound sorry at all.
I pluck a strawberry from the tray and dip it in chocolate, shoving the whole thing in my mouth while making the universal sign with raised brows and a bobbing head forthis shit is good. “Come on, man. Just take the cart to 312, pleeease?”
“Er ... you said 313.”
“Exactly.” I throw up my hands in exasperated agreeance, stumble around the not-so-bright man-child known as Bran, and wander off down the hall to the elevator, smiling all the while because I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy my best friend isn’t wearing a wedding ring on his finger right now.
Who gets married in February anyway? That might be fine if you live in Canada and are okay with freezing off your lady parts at a white winter wedding, but a San Franciscan wedding? No. Not unless you’re hoping your bride will just up and float away on the next big gust of wind. Turns out we didn’t need the San Franciscan weather to lose Harley’s fiancée, but that didn’t matter, because this was never meant to be his wedding day. And he was never meant to walk down the aisle with that trollop by his side.
One day, it will be me watching the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and brim with tears as I walk toward him. One day, it will be my ring he wears and I, his. One day, I’ll marry my best friend.
I just need a little time to convince him of that.
CHAPTER TWO
Rose
Iturn my key in the lock and stumble through the front door of my shop, Darling Buds. Yes, the name may have been inspired by our shared love of J.M. Barrie’sPeter Pan, but ten years of playing Wendy Darling to Harley’s Peter will do that to a girl, I suppose. Just to annoy the ever-loving crap out of my very best friend, I like to say it came from H.E. Bates’ novel, The Darling Buds of May. I think he knows that isn’t true.
Darling Buds is a tiny little store with a studio apartment above it on 24thStreet. It’s sandwiched between a kitschy home décor boutique and an independent bookstore, and located just a half a block down from the smallest Wholefoods you’ve ever seen. And the best part about living where I work? No daily commute. It’s just a few doors down from Harley’s apartment too, which is why I’ll never move. Unless of course he does.
I’ve always loved flowers; I’ve loved to put my hands into the soil and grow things ever since I was a kid. When Harley was running his Tonka trucks through the dirt, I was planting blades of grass and imagining they’d flower into luscious, fat rosebuds, or a beanstalk that led to the sky. Much to my mother’s dismay, when it was time to say goodbye at my Grammy’s funeral, I was found rearranging the wreaths and the coffin spray—because everybody knows you don’t put daffodils in a mixed bouquet, and if they hadn’t known, they did now.