Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
“My girlfriend’s birthday.” I walk around the store, studying the pre-made arrangements and bouquets in the refrigerators. “I want a lot. Something really big. Or maybe several.”
“What are her favorite flowers?”
“No idea.” I feel like roses would be fine, but then I’m thinking maybe something more unique. Less expected.
What says I’m sorry I dumped you because I was afraid you wouldn’t respect me anymore when you found out I was a liar and a criminal but also it turns out I love you so take me back? And sex with you is pretty fantastic and I’d like to keep having it?
“Favorite colors?”
Hell, I don’t know. She wears a lot of black, gray, blue. Except when she’s teaching. Then it’s the opposite. I feel like after two months of dating I should know this. The hell have I been doing this whole time? Eating her pussy, mostly.
Seemingly sensing my discomfort, the woman says, “Well, she’s a Taurus, so pink and green are usually a good bet. She’ll appreciate something earthy yet sophisticated and refined.” Hippie Lady weaves about the store between displays of flowers, touching them all, tilting an ear to them as if she’s listening for something. “Snapdragons,” she declares. “Foxglove and pink roses. With succulents. Yes, that’d be perfect.”
I don’t have the vaguest idea what those are. But I understand the word roses. “Sounds great. Something big,” I remind her.
The bell over the front door jingles as the hippie darts into the back room. I glance over my shoulder to see none other than Coach Jensen walk in.
“Hey Coach.”
He has a nervous aura about him, like the night of the family dinner. It’s odd seeing him that way, when in the locker room or on the ice he’s a stone wall of confidence. I guess women do that to us.
He lets out a heavy sigh. “Edwards.”
Yeah, relations haven’t warmed since the infamous fire. I get it. During the off-season Coach would rather not have to deal with his unruly band of misfits. Running into him around town is a lot like seeing your teacher at the mall during summer vacation. Once the season’s over and the semester ends, they don’t want to know us.
“Here for Iris?” I ask. “Taylor told me she and her mom share a birthday.” Which further supports my theory that Taylor is in fact the product of a Russian human engineering experiment to create some sort of super sleeper agent. She has neither confirmed nor denied.
“No,” he mocks, “I just like to come in a few times a week to gather petals for my bubble bath.”
I like to think sarcasm is Coach’s way of showing he cares. Otherwise this guy can’t fucking stand me. “You two got big plans?”
He turns his back, exploring the arrangements in the cases. “Dinner in Boston.”
“Well, you two kids be safe, and don’t stay out too late. Remember, arrive alive.”
“Don’t be cute, Edwards. I still got a trashcan with your name on it.”
My asshole puckers right up when he says that. “Yes, sir.”
We stand around in awkward silence for a few minutes, both of us pretending to browse the tiny shop while we wait for the florist to return. I can’t imagine what it must be like for Brenna’s boyfriend, Jake. He’s lucky they’re in a long-distance relationship while he’s playing pro for Edmonton, because Coach strikes me as the kind of man who might sit polishing a gun at the kitchen table when a guy comes over for his daughter. And then Brenna struts out the door after a kiss on his cheek with a pocket full of bullets.
Iris was easy as far as meet-the-parents horror stories go. I mean, what’s one little fire between family, right?
“What are your plans with Taylor?” he barks, so abruptly I wonder if I’ve imagined it.
“Dinner first. Just the two of us. Then meeting friends later at Malone’s.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, then clears his throat. “Well, don’t show up at the table next to us, you got that?”
“No problem, Coach.”
Finally the florist returns with a heaping armful of flowers in an enormous vase. Perfect. The damn thing is almost as big as I am. I’m going to have to put a seatbelt on it.
Coach looks from the flowers to me and rolls his eyes. The arrangement is so enormous and cumbersome I end up needing his help to get it out the door and to my Jeep parked at the curb. I’ve just got the flowers strapped into the front seat when across the street I see a face that doesn’t belong. And he sees me.
Shit.
He waits for a couple cars to pass before jogging over to us. My heart’s in my throat and I’m seriously thinking of hopping in the driver’s seat and peeling out.
Too late.
“Conor,” he says. “Finally caught up with you.”
Fuck my life.