Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
It was still bitterly cold, but the sweater made a big difference, and Truman decided to look for gloves and a hat when he got back.
The shop was called Thorn, and it glowed invitingly. Truman rushed inside, cradling the swaddled plant in his arms, and a bell cheerily tinkled his arrival.
A man was arranging roses in a plastic tub with his back to Truman. He had broad shoulders, thick forearms, and messy brownish-blondish hair that swept his shoulders.
“Just a sec,” he called without turning around.
A glassed-in cooler next to the counter held beautiful arrangements. Simple sprays of one kind of flower, riotous mixtures of many colors, and several large arrangements that looked more like art than flowers. Tubs of different varieties of flowers were lined up around the inside of the shop with signs stating type and price and how to make a bouquet of your own.
The walls were painted a soft grayish purple and washed over with irregular swipes of color, giving the subtle effect that you stood inside a flower arrangement. It was lovely and made the scarred wood floors and counter look shabby chic instead of just shabby.
In a red corduroy bed next to the counter, a shaggy black-and-brown dog snoozed, one ear twitching in dreams.
The man turned around, revealing a roughly handsome face and the most gorgeous blue-gray eyes Truman had ever seen. He looked like a sea-torn ship’s captain, eyes like a storm. He had a few days’ worth of golden-brown stubble on his jaw and lips so lush they almost seemed out of place.
When he took in Truman, his expression turned from impersonal welcome to surprise and then settled in amusement.
“Chilly out there, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow at the blanket, revealing the patient.
“Oh, no, um. I mean, yeah, it’s freezing. But this isn’t for me.” Truman put the bundle down on the counter and carefully unwound the blanket. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but I’m hoping you can help. I think this plant is dying.”
Truman’s voice sounded every bit as concerned as he felt, but he would’ve liked to play it just a bit cooler.
“I know you’re a florist, and plants aren’t the same, but I don’t know anyone here, and I just really can not have killed this plant,” Truman finished in a rush, looking desperately at the man now joining him at the counter.
He was tall and even broader than Truman had first thought. His eyes were mesmerizing.
He nodded solemnly and examined the plant, peering at it calmly from all sides. Truman relaxed. The plant seemed to be in good hands.
The man stuck a finger in the soil, then peeked at the bottom of the pot, and finally put it back down on the counter and turned his searching gaze to Truman. “Does this perchance have anything to do with Greta?” he asked. His voice was low and smooth.
Truman goggled. So much for secrecy!
“What? No! Um, I mean… Why would you think that?”
“Well. There’s only one person I know who collects carnivorous plants.”
Truman relaxed again. “Lots of people are into plants. They’re very hot right now. Trending.” He congratulated himself on keeping his cool.
“Uh-huh,” the florist said. “Also you’re wearing her sweater. And carrying a plant wrapped in her blanket.”
Truman blinked. Busted. “Right.”
The florist smiled, revealing charmingly crooked teeth and a dimple in one cheek. “You Truman?”
“You knew who I was this whole time?”
The man smiled again.
“So, um. I guess it would be out of the question to ask you not to tell Greta I killed one of her plants…?”
He shrank with shame.
“I don’t know,” the man said seriously. “Greta is one of my closest friends. And I don’t like to lie.”
Truman cringed. He was the worst. He’d just suffered the devastation that lying could cause, and now he was asking this man to lie for him? Terrible!
“You’re right. I’m so sorry. God, I don’t know what I was thinking—lying is the worst. You’re right not to lie to people. Maybe I could get Greta a new…whatever that plant is? Oh, god, are they really rare, do you know?”
The florist’s expression softened, his stormy eyes fixed on Truman’s.
“Hey, don’t worry. This is a sarracenia. They require a winter dormancy. You didn’t kill it. It’s just resting.”
Relief shot through Truman like a tidal wave. “Oh, thank god. Fuck, thank you.” His head spun with relief.
“Whoa,” the man said, and Truman felt a strong hand fasten around his biceps as he slumped against the counter.
“I’m fine, just a little hungover. And jet-lagged. And heartbroken.”
A strange, panicked laugh tore out of Truman without his permission, and he closed his eyes as his legs went weak.
The florist took his weight effortlessly, led him behind the counter, and pushed him to the chair there. He disappeared through a doorway and returned a minute later with an apple and a granola bar, holding them out to Truman somberly.