Page 15 of Love Arranged
Ana
My phone died. Whoo0pps.
Ana
I didn’t want to pretend anymore. Just like I don’t want to pretend now. I don’t care if you’re Lorenzo or Laurence. I like you despite all the reasons I shouldn’t, and it makes me hate myself.
Ana is offline
Ana
Well, talk about embarrassing, but not nearly as bad as how I looked when you walked into my shop and asked me to make bouquets for another woman.
Ana
I finally realized that I was a challenge rather than the endgame.
Ana has deactivated her account
1
LILY
With an unbelievable amount of self-restraint, I resist turning the shocking letter I read into paper confetti. Instead, I toss it inside my thrifted shoulder bag and lock my office.
On my way to the sales floor, I pass by my mom’s empty office. Her door is shut—a more frequent occurrence since her doctor said she needed to take it easy because of her high blood pressure—and the plastic box nailed beside the white door is full of a few days’ worth of mail.
I spot the matching envelope to the one I received with the town’s crest on the upper left-hand corner. My vivid imagination gets the best of me, and I’m overwhelmed by images of my mom reading the notice tomorrow before she opens the flower shop for the day.
I can picture her breaking down when she learns how acondemnation act works. She’d spiral once she figures out that local governments are allowed to buy properties regardless if someone wants to sell or not, so long as there is appropriate, fair market compensation.
My mom and dad poured everything into turning this shop into their legacy, and I’ll fight anyone, including our small-town city council, who thinks they can buy out a few small businesses because of some antiquated amendment and turn them into fancy new storefronts.
Not wanting to second-guess my decision, I steal my mom’s letter and throw it inside my purse. It’s heavy from the weight of my rash choice, but I’d rather be the one to deliver the bad news.
Ditching the scene of my crime, I push on the swinging door that separates the offices, break room, and storage area from the sales floor. I’m hit with the fresh scent of flowers first, followed by the sound of soft music streaming from the hidden portable speakers.
The comfort I always feel whenever I walk into Rose & Thorn is quickly replaced by an emotional gut punch as I take in everything I stand to lose. My eyes well with tears as my watery gaze wanders around the small shop bursting with different roses, carnations, and other popular summer blooms.
The pristine shop is kept organized, allowing customers to navigate the endless amounts of color-coded buckets full of flowers and foliage so they can easily create their perfect custom bouquet—a Rose & Thorn experience I suggested five years ago—along with description cards placed in front of each bucket describing the name, origin, and possible meanings.
Our newest Rose & Thorn employee, Jane, picks the perfect time to look up from the flowers she’s rearranging at the front of the store. She is a sweet, young woman who moved here from Lake Aurora, a neighboring town that’s only a thirty-minute drive away.
“Everything okay?” Her brows knit together with worry.
I quickly smooth out my sour expression. “Yup. Got some mail from the IRS.”
Even if I wanted to tell Jane about the letter, I shouldn’t. Given the notice’s emphasis on discretion, I’d only anger the people who control our shop’s fate.
As a sign of good faith—I use the term loosely—the Ludlow family is willing to offer a hush-money check in exchange for a signed NDA. It is meant to be a bonus that encourages people to stay quiet until January when the forced sale is finalized and announced to the town.
Assholes.
Jane’s nose twitches. “I’d suggest shredding the envelope and pretending you never got it, but I believe that’s a crime.”
I laugh, but it rings a bit hollow. “Don’t tempt me.”
She brushes a hand down her Rose & Thorn embroidered apron. “I won’t tell on you if anyone comes knocking.”
