Page 2 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
A withering, arctic look like the one he’s just turned to give me.
I pretend like I don’t see it, or him, and smile at Nico. “Hey, Nico. Good to see you. I was just telling your bride that the peonies are a go.”
Nico grins. This is like watching the sun burst through fog. He wasn’t named People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive three years in a row for nothing. Jet hair, blue eyes, and a set of dimples that can kill a woman on the spot . . . Occasionally, I have to remind myself not to stare. It’s not that I’m interested in him—he and Kat are crazy in love, and I’m perfectly happy with my boyfriend, Eric—but not appreciating Nico’s looks would be as criminal as standing in front of the statue of David at the Galleria dell’Accademia in Florence and spending the entire time texting on your phone.
Right now I’m too busy not looking at A.J. to appreciate the full effect of Nico’s beauty.
“Good to hear, darlin’. Unless there’s some other flower you can recommend that’s a symbol of a happy marriage, peonies are definitely what we want.” Nico sits down next to Kat, stretches out his long legs under the table, picks up her hand and kisses it. Slanting her an adoring look, he murmurs, “Make sure we get plenty of lavender roses, too.”
Lavender roses are symbolic of love at first sight. Long story short, Nico grilled me once on all the different meanings of the colors of roses before he chose lavender for an outrageous birthday surprise for Kat. If only Nico’s best man could channel an ounce of that sweetness, I wouldn’t be sitting here acting indifferent toward the third ugly sneer he’s sent my way.
Not that I’m counting.
Only I am, because the experience of being loathed by a complete stranger is new to me. If I’m being perfectly honest, it kind of freaks me out. Okay, it really freaks me out. Almost as much as when Grandpa Walt stuck his dentures in the mouth of the pig my father spit-roasted for the luau-themed birthday party my parents threw for me when I was fourteen.
I had nightmares of grinning pork chops for months. To this day, I still can’t eat meat.
Continuing my charade of indifference, I say, “How about if we add some Stephanotis into Kat’s bouquet? They smell amazing, and they symbolize marital happiness, too.” I show Kat and Nico a picture of the tiny white star-shaped Stephanotis. They both nod in agreement.
As Kat, Nico, and I continue our conversation, A.J. begins to rove around the shop like a restless tiger in a cage, sniffing things out. I find that even more unnerving than his bad attitude. He’s supposed to be participating in this meeting, or at least feigning interest to support the groom, but instead he’s . . . what? Ogling the merchandise? Looking for something to break?
I watch from the corner of my eye as he rifles impatiently through the Lucite rack of designer greeting cards by the cash register, fingers flicking over them in contempt. He abruptly abandons the cards to strut past the tiered display of French buckets filled with fresh cut orchids because he’s spotted the dishy brunette in the short shorts and stilettos browsing the scented candle shelves near the back.
Of course he’d spot the brunette. This is a man who drafts women like they’re fantasy football picks. Most of whom are of the paid variety. From what I’ve read, seen, and heard, A.J. makes Charlie Sheen look like a choir boy.
“Chloe?”
Kat’s voice snaps me back to attention. She and Nico are looking at me expectantly. I realize one of them has said something I haven’t heard. “Sorry. What was that?”
One corner of Nico’s mouth curves up. I suspect he knows exactly where my attention has strayed.
I will kill him with my bare hands if he mentions anything to A.J.
Kat says, “Nico talked to his publicist yesterday about the wedding. The press, and all that.”
The two of them look like they’re sharing a delicious secret. I have no idea why. “Um. Okay?”
“We’ve sold the photo rights to People magazine.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s amazing! I hope they’re paying you a boatload of money—”
“No, honey, that’s not what I’m trying to tell you.” Kat leans forward over the table. She’s smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
I look back and forth between her and Nico. “What then?”
Kat waits a beat before she speaks. When she does, I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. “Along with the coverage of the wedding, they’re going to do a feature on Fleuret!”
Behind us, the brunette giggles at something A.J. has murmured. They’re too far away for me to make out what he’s said, but her laugh sounds distinctly sensual. I resist the urge to turn and find out if money is changing hands. “What do you mean a feature? Like, they’ll mention my shop?”
Nico laughs. It’s his signature husky chuckle, genetically designed to make a woman’s ovaries sit up and beg. I’m immune to it now, having heard it so many times; however, judging by the look on Kat’s face, she’s anything but.
I love how completely in love they are. It’s beautiful. Even if watching them together sometimes makes me feel like I’m missing out on the world’s greatest inside joke. Which is silly, because, like I said before, I’m perfectly happy with my boyfriend.
But.
Like death, the concept of true love is one of those things that’s really hard to grasp until you see it. Once you do, there’s no going back.
Nico says warmly, “No, darlin’. They’re not gonna mention your shop. They’re gonna do a spread on your shop, and you. As in, an entire article about the florist we used to accompany the wedding story.”
