Page 27 of Meeting Mr. Adorkable
“You’re a florist.”
“Ye—s. Although the in vogue term is floral artist.”
“What I mean is, you deal in color, texture, and placement. You create compositions. You paint with flowers.”
“I suppose so. I’ve never really thought of it like that before.” But even as the words left his lips, he knew that wasn’t so.
Imaginative displays and intricate bouquets had brought tears of joy to so many brides, helping to make their big day even more special.
Each December, on the first of the month, he’d decked the walls of Danebury Manor with deep winter greenery, trailing holly and ivy, his creations traditional yet innovative. Fresh floral arrangements for spring, for every room, bright with the promise of the warmth to come. The church on the edge of the estate, old long before the ground he now stood on would be called the United States, a riot of red and green for Christmas, the warmth of golden blooms for Easter, and the deepest red for the poppies of Armistice Day.
The ropes of home tightened in his chest, pulling hard, all but severing his breath as his vision misted. His family hadn’t exiled him, he’d exiled himself. It didn’t matter that it was temporary, that it was for a few months only, the force of what he’d left behind for a place where he was alone, a stranger, as incongruous as a fish out of water, hit him with a force that took his breath away.
“Lucian?” Arlo’s voice came to him as though through a fog, but the hand on his arm was warm and sure. “Are you okay? You look a little shaken.”
His voice was low and deep, but soft too, concern in every word. Arlo’s hand still held his arm, and Lucian craved that warmth and strength, yet he cleared his throat and forced a shaky smile to his lips.
“I’m fine. Really. I just got a vision of home, that’s all, and its intensity shook me. It’s silly, I came out here for — well, a much needed break from everything. Just for a few months. I should be having the time of my life—”
“But you’re not?”
Lucian shook his head as a lump filled his throat. It wouldn’t have mattered where he was, Collier’s Creek or the moon, the feeling of being alone and being lonely, away from everything that had been his anchor even if that anchor had been pulled up and wound in, it would have been the same anywhere.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice rough, as he pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose.
“Don’t be. You’ve uprooted yourself. You’re feeling… disconnected. I get it.” Arlo gazed down at him with sympathy in his clear eyes, but the tiniest pull of his brows, as though there was more than sympathy, urged Lucian to speak.
“Is that what you felt when you first went to New York? When you left everything you’d known behind?”
“No, not then, but I’ve felt it since. Believing — or trying to — that everything’s great, that it’s all going as it should be when it’s not. Knowing that something’s missing.” He pulled his hand away, and Lucian felt it as though a warm coat had been ripped from him on the coldest, bitterest winter’s day. Stuffing his hands into the side pockets of his jeans, Arlo looked out at the mountains, dark and brooding against the setting sun.
Tony, the ex… The man Arlo had once loved, the one he’d spent years with, the man he’d believed would be his forever. Whatever had become of them, Arlo must miss what they’d both once had.
A teenage girl walked by and bumped into Arlo, yanking her attention from her cell as she blushed an apology. The presence of others, of traffic, of life buzzing all around them, broke through the bubble they’d been in since they’d left the coffee shop.
Lucian looked around him. Somehow, they’d found their way back to Bibi’s, but he had no recollection of how they’d got there.
“Well, I’d best let you get on with the rest of the day. Or what’s left of it.”
Arlo frowned at him as if he’d spoken in a foreign language.
“Goodbye, then. I’ll let you go. You know, to get on with things. Bye.” Lucian had got no further than a couple of steps.
“Lucian!” Arlo barked. “Wait.”
Lucian turned. Arlo was still frowning, but it was different. A little awkward, a little… bashful? But there was more that Lucian couldn’t decipher, as though Arlo had reached a decision.
“Are you doing anything this evening?”
“Other than trying to dodge Mr. DuPont on the way up to what’s laughingly called my apartment, then no.” No hot date, either, if he didn’t count Netflix. God, it was pathetic.
“Would you like to come back to the house?”
“Again?”
Arlo’s face fell. Lucian didn’t even attempt to tamp down his groan. How could such a rugged, masculine man look like a kicked puppy? And how could he have been so fucking stupid?
“Just an idea, that’s all—”
