Hopefully.
Braxton’s Bouquets has been in business since before I was born. Once I was old enough to know the difference between a lily and a tulip, my parents put me to work. Whether you’re getting married or burying someone, Momma can hook you up with an arrangement that puts any big-city florist to shame.
Footsteps trail down the shop’s stairs, and Momma heads toward me and the counter with a clipboard in hand. She grins from ear-to-ear as she plops it onto the counter. As soon as I see the spreadsheet-style form in all its jumbled-number glory, I groan. It’s hell, I’m telling you.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she says. “The order needs to be done. We’re low on just about everything. All those funeral arrangements we did over the weekend nearly wiped us clean.”
She’s right; the display room is a lot emptier than normal. The rush we had this weekend didn’t help. Six people died, but Mr. Thornhill’s family and friends almost cleaned out the shop on their own. Even still, I hate doing the order. I’m terrible with numbers. I always screw something up.
“I’m convinced you love torturing me,” I tell her.
“I’ve got another interview coming in soon,” she continues, “so suck it up and make it look like you’re nice to work with. Gotta get someone in here to help me, since you’ll be abandoning me for a glove and ball soon.” She points to my Chemistry book, which is on the counter. “And school. You can abandon me for school. No slacking this semester, Austin. Think about that eligibility.”
Well, someone’s obviously been talking to Coach. My eyebrows scrunch together. “Wait, this is what? The sixth interview this week? You’ve managed without me every other year. Do you really need someone that bad?” We’re not exactly in the poor house, but I’m not even sure Momma can afford to pay someone else. We need that money to, you know, eat. I kind of like food.
“I’m not as young as I used to be.” She smiles and ruffles my hair. I bat her hand away just as the bell above the door chimes. She whirls around with her signature smile in place as she calls out, “Welcome!” She only wasted it on Jay, who’s walking toward us with a damn limp.
My eyes widen. I rush from behind the counter as Momma hurries toward him. “What the hell happened to you?” I ask.
Momma takes his arm and guides him to the counter, which he leans against with a wince. “I’m fine,” he says, but his dark eyes tell me he’s full of it. He’s hurtin’. “Don’t yell. It makes the flowers sad.”
If he wasn’t already limping, I’d shove him, but this is bad enough. The two of us have been paired up for years, ever since JV. Going a season without him behind the plate isn’t an option. The guy’s my mind-reader. “What the hell happened? And how long’s this gonna last?”
“Watch your mouth,” Momma says, pointing at me. I hold up my hands. The woman’s small, but fierce. “Now what in the Lord’s name happened?”
“I’m fine,” Jay repeats. “Br—um, you-know-who was walking me to my car after class, and I tweaked my ankle tripping over a curb. Guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
He glances at my momma out the corner of his eye. The only thing on her face is concern, so he’s safe. Not that she would give a flying crap about the truth, but there’s no convincing Jay of that. It’s a secret that the guy’s probably going to take to his deathbed. Or at least to Arizona in the fall. It’s not something you talk about around here.
“Someone’s finally got you stumbling over your feet, huh?” Momma asks. “Who’s the lucky girl?”
Jay’s not breathing. He’s definitely not breathing, and I really don’t feel like using mouth-to-mouth on this dude. I clear my throat and ask, “Momma? What time does your interview start?”
She glances at her watch. Jay rejoins the land of the living with a whoosh of breath. “Any minute now,” she says. “I’ll be in the office, so send her on up when she gets here.” She squeezes Jay’s shoulder. “Rest that ankle. I don’t want Austin throwing a hissy fit about having to pitch to a second-string catcher this year. You hear me?”
He gives her a tight smile. “Yes, ma’am.” His gaze meets mine as Momma heads for the stairs, and once the door to her office opens, he groans and smacks his head on the counter. “This sucks,” he moans against the wood before straightening, pushing his shaggy dark hair away from his forehead.
Jay’s been my best friend since Little League. He always knows what to say when I whine about school or when I complain about Coach. (Usually it’s “shut up and grow a pair.”) But even though it’s been four years since he came out to me, I still have no clue what to say at times like this.
I want to make things easier for him, but as long as we live in Small Town USA, where life revolves around Jesus, baseball, and how high you can lift your truck, it’s just not gonna happen. I know it, and he knows it. Heaven forbid half of Lewis Creek’s All-Star Duo turns out to be gay. Or even worse, that the guy he’s nuts about is the pastor’s son and our team’s very own third baseman. It’s a damn shame that most guys in our class use and ditch girls within a week and no one bats an eye, but he and Brett have had to sneak around for six months, like they’ve been doing something wrong. It’s bullshit.
I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. “Well, we’ll be out of this place in less than eight months,” is all I can think to say.
The smallest hint of relief crosses his face. “Thank the sweet baby Jesus. Eight months until freedom to kiss whoever I damn well please wherever I want.” He eyes me. “Speaking of which, when’re you going to get yourself a fresh girl? You’ve had one hell of a dry spell since Jamie left for college last year.”
And that’s my cue. Ignoring him, I grab the clipboard and head for the first display cooler. We definitely need more roses. The cooler could use a good cleaning before I leave tonight, too.
“All right, I know when you’re brushing me off,” Jay says. He limps over to me, his face scrunching with each step.
“Dang it, Jay, if you genuinely effed up your ankle, I’ll break the other one,” I tell him. “I’m not pitching to second-string. Not during my last season.”
He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and grins. “Nah, Brett checked it out before we left the lot. I’ll be good to go come practice time. Quit your whining.”
I move on to the next cooler and make a note to order more lilies of the valley. Mrs. Clark, the pianist down at First Baptist, cleans us out every Friday so she can take them to her son’s grave.
“Anyway, I’m not blowin’ you off,” I tell Jay, looking at the clipboard and making my way down the list. “I just need to actually focus until we graduate. Chemistry is going to be a bastard, and ball takes up my entire week. I don’t have time to squeeze girls onto that list.”
He nods slowly. “Right,” he drawls. “You said that last January. Remember? It was right before you hooked up with the hottie-hot-hot and lost your head in her ass for four months.”
“Five months,” I mumble, scribbling “5 dozen red” beside roses on the order sheet. “I dated Jamie for five months. Now can we drop it?”
The door’s bell jingles again, and my head pops up. Sweet Lord, have mercy.
Jay turns to see the brown-haired girl who’s already got my full attention, but it’s not just any girl—it’s the girl. The girl I nearly knocked down last night. Barbecue-Hatin’ Girl. My clipboard slips from my hands, but I snatch it just before it clatters to the floor. In the daylight, her pale skin is a clear sign that I was right: she’s definitely not from around Lewis Creek. Practically every girl here has her own tanning bed.
She pulls her blue-and-red jacket more tightly around her as her gaze lands on me, and holy mother, it’s an Atlanta Braves zip-up hoodie. So, in review: she’s a gorgeous, pint-sized girl who has the best possible taste in baseball. Did God just say poof and bring one of my dreams to life?
Jay nudges me a little too hard, making me stumble into the card rack. It crashes to the floor, sending cards and balloon packages f
lying all over the place. Shit. Barbecue-Hatin’ Girl rushes over and crouches down to help just as I kneel. She gathers up the cards, and when those eyes dart up to meet mine, her lips curve into this cute half-smirk, like she knows I’m watching her.
Busted.
I jump up, straightening my scrunched apron as she stands with her little grin still in place.
“If it isn’t Barbecue Guy. You work here?”
I think that’s what she says, but her words aren’t much more than gibberish because, like last night, I can’t stop staring.
She’s seriously going to believe that I am, in fact, a serial killer.
Jay coughs loudly, startling me. He tosses his arm across my shoulders and leans in between the girl and me. “I think my friend’s lost his people skills. I’m Jay.” He pats my chest. “And this dashing fella is Austin ‘Floral Prince of Lewis Creek’ Braxton. Who might you be?”
I shoot him a glare. Floral Prince? He’s getting his tail whooped for that. “Really, bro?”
The girl narrows her eyes as her gaze darts between the two of us. She holds the cards out to me, and I know I should take them. My brain is screaming, Take the stupid cards, you stupid, stupid idiot, but my arms won’t listen. Jay grabs the cards and slaps them against my chest. Thanks, buddy.
“I’m Marisa,” she says. “I called about the ad in the paper? Ms. Braxton asked me to be here at four o’clock.”
Silence blankets the room as she stares at me. Why’s she staring at me? I glance over at Jay, but he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.
“So,” Marisa says slowly, “where would I find Ms. Braxton?”
Oh. That’s why.
“Um—” I clear my throat, which feels like tree bark, and point to the stairs. “Upstairs. She’s upstairs. In her office. Which is upstairs. You just go up the, you know, stairs.”
Jay slaps his hand over my mouth. “I think she understands,” he says. Marisa nods. “Good luck,” he adds. “Make sure you smile a lot. Ms. B. loves that.”
She laughs. “Nice meeting you, Jay. Good seeing you again, Floral Prince.” She waves and heads up the stairs I’m so nuts about.
Once the door to the office closes, Jay finally drops his hand and chuckles. Moving between me and the stairs, he crosses his arms. He glances back over his shoulder and smirks at me. “And the all-star player became the played. This’ll be one hell of a show.”
“I hate your guts, you know that?”
He winks. “Yeah. And you’ll miss the hell out of me when I’m gone.”
chapter three
I’m not a total idiot—I didn’t think Chemistry would be as easy as hitting off a batting tee. I’ve cracked open my book every night since the semester started, which is more than I can say for my other classes. But when you’re two weeks into the semester, throwing a surprise test into the mix isn’t the way for a teacher to get on my good side. Especially when everything on this piece of paper may as well be written in Russian. Not that he gives a flying crap what I think.
I bang my head on the table. I can kiss Carolina goodbye next year if I don’t pass this class. Scholarship? Gone. There needs to be a way to strangle fall-semester-Austin for dropping Chemistry, all because he didn’t want to take it with Mr. Matthews after getting busted in the man’s pond. I didn’t take into account that the universe hates me, and the universe always gets what it wants.
“Mr. Braxton?” My head pops up. I look around the room. Everyone else has already finished their tests and left for the day, leaving me alone with Mr. Matthews. He points to the clock. “Time’s almost up. Sure you should be napping?”
Yeah. The universe is a bastard.
My leg bounces as I look back to my paper. Freakin’ periodic table. Who even needs to know this crap? I guarantee ninety-nine percent of the people in this class won’t be science majors. Chemistry is an invention of the devil himself. Why can’t my Chem class still be identifying beakers and tongs instead of memorizing this stupid stuff?
Shaking my head, I grab my backpack and carry my test to the front. I can’t even look at Mr. Matthews when I put it on his desk; I stare at my boots instead. I know what he’ll say if I make eye contact: “Think about that eligibility, son.” I get it enough from Momma and Coach. If I hear it one more time, my brain will explode.
Mr. Matthews clears his throat, so I glance up. His nose is all scrunched as he stares at the test in what looks like disbelief. “Mr. Braxton…” He trails off with a shake of his head. “You do realize there’s no element called—” he squints. “—does this say ‘badminton’?”
He could give me some credit. At least I remembered hydrogen and oxygen.
“You can do better than this.” He finally meets my gaze. “You do realize that I’m not just going to push you out the door with an A, right?”
My jaw stiffens as I nod. “Yes, sir.”
“You’ve got to keep the big picture in mind,” he continues. “Think about your eli—”
There it is. I head for the door and, throwing my hand up in a backward wave, keep on into the hallway. See, I’ve thought about the eligibility. I’ve thought about my grade. It doesn’t make understanding the useless crap any easier.
I shove through the double doors, and the cold mid-January air hits me hard. I pull on my cap and stride to my truck, one of the few left in the senior lot. One of the best things about being a senior is that we can bust out of here early on most days. Staring at the Chem test put me behind schedule.
Maybe I do need some help with this school stuff. The problem is that asking for help isn’t only embarrassing as hell, it’s just kind of wrong. Admitting that you’re dumb as a pile of rocks? Not tempting. When you’ve got the golden arm of Lewis Creek, everyone assumes that a golden brain goes along with it or something. Tutoring doesn’t exactly fit that mold.
I toss my bag into the truck bed, climb into my seat, and tear out of the parking lot. I could get by with being a few minutes late to work, but being on time keeps me on Momma’s good side—and gives me more time to look at the new girl who’s starting today. Either way, I’m winning.
When I pull up to the shop, a blue Mazda with a Maryland license plate is parked next to my usual spot. I cut the engine, hop down from my truck, and head for the shop. It’s not nearly as busy as it has been lately. The holidays are always crazy, so it’s probably a good thing she starts this week. Best not to overwhelm her on her first day.
Stepping into the shop is like walking into a sauna, compared to outside. The display room is quiet, with no one in sight—not even the ones who are actually supposed to be, you know, working. I yank off my hoodie and toss it onto the counter, next to the register. Down the hallway, the back room is dark. Weird. No one there either.
“Lost in your own shop?”
“Holy sh—” I whirl around, my heart racing. Marisa stares up at me with the same tiny smirk she had on her face the other day. If anyone else looked at me that way, I’d peg them as a cocky ass. On her, it’s pretty hot.
“Not lost,” I say, still catching my breath. “Just wondering if the new girl swiped my momma and high-tailed it out of town, and how long until I had to call the cops.”
Just shut up, Braxton. Shut up now.
She puts her hands on her hips. “Now why would I try and kidnap your mom?”
As much as I love a drawl in a girl’s voice, I could listen to Marisa’s little Northern accent all day long. She cocks an eyebrow, clearly waiting for me to do some talking. When did I turn into such an idiot?
“Because you’re desperate for her flower fortune?” Yeah. Even I wince at that. Should’ve shut up while I was ahead.
She bursts out laughing. Smooth, Braxton. Her wide smile stays in place as she backs toward the counter. I grab my apron from the hook next to the register, tie it on, and hang my hoodie in its place, right next to Marisa’s Braves zip-up.
“I’m sure your mom’s fortune is pretty high up there, but I’ll pass on the jail t
ime, thanks. Besides, she could probably take me any day. She seems tough.” Marisa nods toward the stairs. “She’s up in the office working on some accounting stuff. Said to tell you to ‘take care of me.’”
Leaning against the counter, I smirk. “Take care of you? Really, now?”
She holds her hands up, palms facing me. “Her words, not mine. Can’t use them against me.” She pauses and adds, “Okay, wait. That could be taken so many ways. Keep your brain out of the gutter.”
I shrug. “No clue what you’re talking about.”
She smiles along with me, a smile so wide that her eyes crinkle at the sides. I’d be kind of happy looking at that smile and those eye-crinkles every day. I guess I’ll be able to until the season starts up. Lucky me.
Wait. No. Not lucky. No girls allowed this year. That was my freakin’ New Year’s resolution and everything. You can’t go back on a resolution.
Shut up. It’s legit.
The thing is that I can’t let myself go nuts over some girl again. I fell head over feet for Jamie last year, but she left early for Georgia State in June and dumped me with a text. I was a worthless sack of crap for months after that. There’s this thing that happens when you date people. It’s a blast, and it’s intense, and it’s crazy (usually the good crazy). But when the other person moves on and leaves you behind, they take a chunk of you with them. And it sucks. I can’t handle that feeling again right now. I can’t.
I clap my hands together and start for the first display cooler. Marisa’s shoes squeak against the floor as she follows me. “All right, then,” I say on an exhale, turning to her. She stares up at me, all bouncy ponytail and bright eyes. “We’re supposed to be training. So, first things first. Flowers: how much do you know about them?”
She giggles, and dang it, she needs to stop. Please make it stop. All these little things she does that make my stomach do weird flip-flops are going to turn into big things, and big things are a lot harder to ignore.
“It’s safe to say I know a bit about flowers,” Marisa says. “Your mom gave me one heck of a quiz during my interview to make sure I knew my stuff. She even asked what my favorite flower was and how often I’m supposed to change vase water. I mean, really?”
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