Kimber Chin

“Nicky.”

Nicole’s heart skipped a beat. She had been hoping, dreading, no, hoping he’d be in, her monthly torture. “Mister Drepper.”

“No Mister Drepper.” He leaned his long frame over her counter. “Peter, remember?”

“Peter.” She remembered. She remembered everything about him. Including the way he made her feel. Nicole busily folded the paper over the roses she was wrapping, her hands trembling. “What will it be this month?” She was proud of her businesslike tone, no hint of the pain, the longing, the hopelessness. “A dozen red roses?” It was the standard order for Valentine’s Day.

“I don’t know.” His forehead wrinkled up. “Would that impress you?”

Her? No, he didn’t mean her. Nicole ruthlessly squashed the elation. He meant that woman he was always buying flowers for. She studied his handsome, smiling, completely clueless face. Would red roses impress the woman he loved? After a year of more exotic blooms? “No, it wouldn’t.”

He laughed, low and deep, and her toes curled. “I didn’t think so. So what do you suggest?” He moved around the counter, into her private zone.

Come closer. No, go away. Closer. No. Pain, pleasure warred within Nicole and distracted, her fingers didn’t work properly, causing the clear tape to fold and stick to her skin. “Oh.” She flicked that piece away, frustrated. With the tape, herself, the situation.

“Allow me.” He put an arm around her. She caught her breath. He was touching her, almost, it was…

“There.” She blinked down at the now closed package.

Nicole straightened. She couldn’t do this, feel this, want this. This man was married. She delivered flowers to his wife, Missus Shirley Drepper, for goodness sakes. “H..h..how about Dendrobium orchids in a rich purple hue?” Nicole moved quickly to the cooler. “We could accent them with bear grass.”

“Beautiful,” but his eyes were on her face.

It shouldn’t give her joy, the way he looked at her, like she was the only woman in the world, like he wasn’t married, had never been married. No, it shouldn’t. She was a horrible person to covet another woman’s man. “I can have them delivered tonight if you wish.”

“No delivery.” He turned to survey the rack of enclosure cards, hands on his hips. “Not needed this time.” A twist of his lips. “Which one goes with orchids?”

She plucked a crisp white card with a purple border. “Try this.” Biting because the pain was too intense. “It’ll only take a minute for me to wrap them up.”

“Take your time.” Peter frowned down at the blank card. “I want to get the words exactly right.”

Exactly right. He must really love this woman. She worked as quickly as she could, suddenly anxious for him to leave. Maybe then the pain would stop.

Until the next month.

“Hhhmmm…” Humming coming from him.

She glanced over. The card was still blank. He wasn’t having much luck with those exactly right words.

“Do you like poetry?”

An aggravated sound came from her throat, she couldn’t help it. “It doesn’t matter what I like. I’m not your wife.”

His head snapped up. “Not yet and if I get this wrong…”

Not yet? What game was he playing? “You’re already married. You forget I deliver flowers to Missus Drepper.”

“Missus Drepper.” The pen fell to the counter top. “Missus Drepper.” Then he was laughing, his hands on his thighs. “No wonder. Missus Drepper.”

Nicole was not amused and slammed the tape dispenser down on the counter to make that clear.

Stopping the laughter. “Oh, Nicky, darling, you’re worried about Missus Drepper?”

“YOU should be worried about Missus Drepper. If I was your wife…” She would lock him up at home, away from irrational flower arrangers.

His brown eyes lit up. “Would you care?”

She sighed. She cared. Too much. “I think you should find a new florist.”

“No, I can’t do that, Nicky, darling, darling Nicky. My Mom, Missus Drepper,” he emphasized the name, “loves your arrangements. In fact, my dad should be in tomorrow for a Valentine’s Day order.”

“Your… your…” Nicole’s brain wasn’t working properly. “Then who…” She waved a hand over the orchids.

“They’re for you.” Sheepish.

For her? She stared.

Peter grimaced. “Was it cheesy to have you arrange your own Valentine’s Day flowers?”

Her own?

“I thought about going to the shop down the street.”

“The competition?” He’d send her flowers from the competition? He’d send her flowers… Her…

“Exactly. That’s what I thought too.” He scratched his scalp. “Maybe I should have sent you chocolates.”

“Me…” She blinked.

“But then you told me, that first day.” He was rounding the end of the counter again. “Nothing says love better than flowers, remember?”

She remembered. She remembered everything. “Those were for your mother.” Missus Drepper. His mother.

“Well.” A nervous bark of a laugh. “I couldn’t tell you I fell in love with you, could I? At first sight? I mean, I’m a GUY.”

“You love me?” She tilted her head up to look into his eyes, he was so close now.

“I do.” A pause. “Unless that freaks you out and then I don’t, but I could.” His voice dropped. “I really could.” Wistful. “After a couple dates, perhaps?” Another pause. “Or sooner.”

He loved her. And he wasn’t married. Missus Drepper was his mother. She could love him back. Nicole smiled up at him. “Dating is overrated.”

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