Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
In the afternoon, the rest of the storm rushes in.
Someone shows up wanting flowers for an anniversary. Then another wants a sympathy arrangement. Then comes a lady from church urgently needing something for her daughter.
Then another.
And another.
My store is crowded and I’m rushing around sweating my ass off, all while fielding the phone that’s blowing up with order after order from every last member of Lottie’s book club.
That’s when Cash drops in, likely expecting to hang out.
And is frozen at the door by the sea of faces, hair, and way too much perfume causing the walls of the shop to swell outward.
“Help!” my eyes scream without words.
Cash snaps out of it and hops over the counter (literally) to start ringing people up, still wearing his backpack.
Every face is friendly. Everyone adores whatever I suggest. I barely get a word out before the ladies start upselling themselves, grabbing every last thing.
Seriously.
Did the town hold a meeting?
Were decisions made?
Is this Nadine Strong’s madness? Lottie’s doing? Cash’s power with Stella being a former member—and I’m starting to presume head—of the Spruce High PTA?
“Was there something in the paper?” I finally have the balls to ask Nancy Harding, who never minces words with me. “Is it Noah? Did he write up and publish an article?”
While literally hugging a potted fern to her chest, she twists her eyes onto me. “Just ‘cause my grandson’s dating him doesn’t mean I know everything going on in that young man’s head.” She winks at me, as if I’m expected to know what that means, then takes herself to the counter for Cash to ring her up.
It’s more than suspicious.
It’s obvious.
Everyone has their excuse for why their purchase definitely has nothing to do with helping out my business.
One woman needs centerpieces for an event six months away.
Another buys flowers for her dining room table because: “I’ve decided I deserve them.”
Marybeth from the clinic insists they will need weekly flower arrangements for the office because: “Ain’t goin’ to the doctor just dreary enough?”
At one point, I rush behind the counter to grab more cards to replace a stack in the front I just ran out of, and Cash hisses at me, “I think we’re under attack, Mr. C!”
I don’t know how to handle this.
How to accept this.
I should be grateful, but I’m bombarded with the instinct to apologize to every last person who comes in.
I didn’t want the town’s charity.
“No,” says Cash the second I’m about to take over the register to offer a discount to Miss Herring, whose huge order just swelled to three digits. “You just spent the last three days fixing the prices. Don’t go cutting them down and sabotaging yourself again.”
“But everyone’s just … h-helping too much.”
“Then let them.”
I stare back at him, unsure whether to be scared or impressed. Then I look over at Miss Herring, who smiles sweetly before Cash finishes ringing her up.
Then the next customer. And the next.
This is how the rest of the day carries on: one smiling face at a time, and a whole lot of musical noise at that register.
I stay open an hour and a half late to accommodate the rush.
My fingers are sore and unusually worn by stubborn thorns and stems. My back aches something fierce.
Then Cash and I are alone again, standing at the door, numb.
“Is this gonna happen tomorrow, too?” asks Cash, blinking.
“I think I’m gonna need to hire you full-time,” I mumble back.
“Okay,” he says, exhausted. Then he looks at me. “Does this mean the shop’s saved? Are you rolling in dough now?”
I tallied it up. Made calculations. “Today was a great day.” I let out a light little sigh. “But … I don’t know if this kind of intensity is sustainable. I’m happy for the rush of business today, don’t get me wrong, but …”
“But it’s just a temporary help.”
“Something like that,” I confirm.
“You still need big guns,” he says.
I slowly nod. “I still need big guns.”
“Don’t sweat it, Mr. C. You’ll get your big guns. Promise.” Cash slaps me on the back with startling strength. “We’ll get you the whole dang arsenal.”
I smile back tiredly.
That night, I fall asleep so fast, I don’t even remember getting home, showering, eating, or having an hour-long phone call with Lance, who calls on the pretense of seeing how I’m doing, only to then complain for an hour about how demanding Cassie can be.
In the morning, I’m woken by a rumbling car engine.
No way.
I fall off the couch and rush to the kitchen window, wiping my eyes frantically.
My stomach sinks.
Moving truck. Unfamiliar blue sedan in the driveway. Woman with bushy brown hair kindly giving instructions to three bearded men by the truck. Two strapping young guys carry a couch up the steps of the porch, front door wide open.
It’s official.
I have real new neighbors now.
“Nicole Berry,” she says warmly, greeting me later.