Page 77 of She Likes It, Hey Micah
And then my stomach makes the most horrendous noise in the history of gastrophonics. (That’s not a word, but my stomach just made that word’s existence necessary.)
Micah laughs so hard that she accidentally spits in my face and scurries backwards as if to put distance between herself and the monstrosity that is my digestive system.
Horrified, I do the only thing I can think of and start making jokes. “Was that my stomach or a fighter jet?”
That only makes her laugh harder, and she grips her stomach and sinks to the floor.
I run a hand through my hair. “Seriously, I didn’t think the human body was capable of that high a decibel.”
“I think you’re hungry,” Micah gasps.
“Obviously. My stomach has been replaced by a rocket engine. Or maybe a yeti.”
“Stop!” she begs, waving a hand at me. Then she fumbles for one of the food containers, finds a bread roll, and throws it at me. “Will you please eat something before it makes that noise again? I don’t want to go deaf.”
I sink to the floor beside her, settling in front of the coffee table and pulling my pork chops toward me. Maybe it’s a good thing we got interrupted. As much as I want to kiss Micah, I’m not sure it’s a good idea. “This food had better be good.”
“You think I would eat at a restaurant multiple times a week if it wasn’t good?”
I really didn’t want the reminder of her many suitors.
“Those flowers.” I glance behind me. “Are they all from dates?” I hope she says no. There are probably two dozen different flowers on that board, and I’m sure there have been many duplicates.
Micah lets out a little sigh as she scoots closer to the table and opens up her fettuccine. “Yeah. Sometimes they show up with flowers, sometimes they send them to my office.”
“What sort of guy thought to give you ranunculus?”
Her jaw drops. “There is no way you know what those are.”
I really should eat something, but her incredulity is a little too entertaining. Shrugging, I start cutting into my meat as I say, “The orange one between the poppy and the tulip?”
She grabs my arm even though I’m still attempting to get myself a bite of food. It isn’t easy with a plastic knife. “Where in the world did you learn about flowers?”
I chuckle. “You could say mine was a more…classical…education.” In other words, I learned ballroom and flowers alongside calculus and literature. New Mexico isn’t the debutante South, but my parents found a way to pretend we were classier than we were. “In my defense,” I say and pop a bite of pork into my mouth so I can talk around it like a pig, “I didn’t pay much attention to the gentlemanly lessons, so I only have bits and pieces.”
“Like ranunculus,” she says with a grin. “I do like buttercups.”
Nodding, I scoop some potatoes into my mouth and look at the foam board again. With the sheer number of flowers on there, one of them has to be her favorite. Or maybe not? “Which one is your—”
“You have to guess,” she interrupts with a sly smile. “You don’t get a free pass just because I like you.”
Wait, does that mean this is a date? Is she giving me a chance to convince her to love me? Swallowing, I look from her to the board and feel itchy under the pressure of this task. Do I only get one shot? Or can I keep guessing until I get it right? “This feels like a trick,” I mutter.
“Maybe it is.”
“What happens if I guess it right?”
She doesn’t answer, moving her focus to her food. But a blush slowly rises up her neck and into her face, and I can’t help but smile.
“So, no pressure,” I say and get to work cutting myself another piece of pork chop.
I spend the next ten minutes naming each of the flowers on the board and gauging her reaction, but she gives me absolutely nothing. She really wants me to guess. Maybe it’s her way of testing fate, but I don’t think so. I think whatever her favorite flower is, it speaks to her in a way nothing else does. The man who knows her flower knowsher.
When our food is gone, I run out of excuses to stay. Good excuses, at least. We both have a lot of work to do this week, and the last thing I want to do is keep her up too late so she doesn’t get enough sleep.
“I should go,” I say, hating every word.
Micah clearly hates them too. Her eyes widen, eyebrows pulling down, and she looks ready to grab onto me and never let me go. As flattering as that is, I meant what I said. “But you haven’t guessed my favorite flower,” she says when I stand.
