Page 142 of Chicago Sin
I let her go.
I fucked up.
But it wouldn’t be the first time I sabotaged my life.
The question now is what will I do next? Continue to dig my grave, or fucking walk toward the light that is Hannah?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hannah
The next week, I drag myself back into work, but I’m wearing Armando’s faded Cubs t-shirt—the one with a hole near the collar. It was in my hamper because I’d slipped it on after having sex one night, so he didn’t pack it when he left.
I don’t know why I put it on today—to torture myself? It really makes no sense.
I’ve really been thinking over what my mom said to me.
Maybe I was hasty in breaking up with Armando. Certainly not telling him about the baby was wrong. I knew that even before my mom let her judgment bleed through. But hearing it reflected back at me brought it home.
I’ve been feeling like the injured party, maybe because my heart’s so damn sore, but really, I’m the one who caused this pain. For both of us, assuming Armando’s also grieving.
I flip open the wedding arrangement album and price list and push it across the counter. I’m helping a couple order flowers for their wedding. It’s only the third wedding order I’ve taken since I took over the shop, so despite my low spirits, I’m thankful. The somewhat bored groom-to-be looks familiar. I’m pretty sure he’s one of the mafia guys who gets their hair cut next door. So it seems greasing that wheel is working.
Thank-fucking-god.
“I heard you’re an award-winning florist,” the bride-to-be says, looking around.
I flush, wondering if the place looks like an award-winning shop. Also, wondering where the hell she heard such a thing. But screw that, my arrangements are good—damn good. Better than Mary Alice’s. And I have a decent shot at winning an award in that competition in a couple months. I square my shoulders.
“We like to keep things fresh and original here. I put a lot of thought into my arrangements to make them fit the individual—or the couple.”
I kick myself for not updating the arrangement book with designs of my own—the photos are still Mary Alice’s. But I go off-book and start offering what I can see this couple using. “What color are your bridesmaids wearing?”
“Black cocktail dresses of their own choosing,” she says.
“Evening wedding?”
“Yes.”
“So you could do almost anything with the flowers. Do you have favorites?”
Her eyes sweep around the place again. “Roses, I guess,” she says.
“Roses are classic, of course. White or red would be the most formal, or you could do any other color that’s a favorite.”
The bride looks uncertain.
“Or you could do something totally unique. Mix something exotic in with roses. Like shades of pink and blush old fashioned roses with peonies. Or star-gazer lilies.”
She brightens. “Yes, something unique sounds great. I’d love the peonies.”
I talk her through the order, suggesting possibilities for table arrangements, altar, decorations, bridesmaids, groomsmen and, of course, her bouquet. At the end, we come up with a package close to $2500, which the guy doesn’t seem to blink at.
“So how did you hear about us?” I ask, hoping I sound casual. Forcing myself to make an attempt at being personable, even though I don’t feel like it.
“Armando Rossi,” the bride says.
When I start, she goes still, her eyes slowly traveling from my face down to my chest. No, to the t-shirt. “Wait, are you… dating Armando?” she asks incredulously.
