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)
Every light in this cramped shop seems to find his eyes.
Makes them look like sparkling swimming pools.
Annoying.
They’re too bright. Can’t decide if they’re trying to be green or blue. The kind of eyes a man could mistake for safe water.
Which is exactly how idiots drown.
I stand my ground. “I’m the one my tía put in charge of the house. Not you. I’m her family. Not you. Just tell me what flowers to get and I’ll get them and do this myself.”
His smile’s gone.
Seems like I’m starting to get good at wiping them away.
Another ding from the front door separates the two of us from each other like we were just caught doing something.
In walks a man in a golf polo with sunburned neck and shades, which he slides up to the top of his tightly-combed head of blond hair. He slips a hand into his pocket. His loafers clack on the floor with every step.
Wyatt changes at once.
Not much.
But enough that it catches me off-guard.
Something in the way his spine straightens up. How his smile snaps right back in place, brighter than any he’s ever given me.
He looks like a training video host. Perfect. Pleasant.
Alien.
“Mr. Bellamy,” Wyatt greets him. Even his voice is changed. “I wasn’t expecting you until Friday.”
The man stops, like Wyatt’s existence is a surprise. “I was in the area. Thought I’d save us both the trouble of a phone call and drop in. What is it? Don’t like seeing me?”
“No, no, sir. Not at all, not at all.”
“Busy?”
The man doesn’t even look at me. Not even a glance. I’m not here. As good as a dead leaf on the floor to crunch his loafers over.
Wyatt lets out a lighthearted laugh. “Never for you, sir. You’re welcome to drop in at any—”
“That’s good,” Mr. Bellamy cuts him off pleasantly, “because I swear, anytime I stop in at Brighthouse unannounced, they nearly have a table already set out pouring me a cup of coffee before I can even take a breath. Wouldn’t expect less from five-star service.”
Wyatt folds his hands in front of his apron. “I’ll do my best.”
I’m watching them like a ping-pong match, my eyes on Wyatt one second, this Bellamy tool the next, back and forth.
“Well.” The man breezes past me to the counter where he slaps down a piece of paper. “You can start by telling me why this quote here’s so high.”
Wyatt joins him at the counter, looking it over. “Oh. This is … what we agreed on last week, isn’t it? I didn’t think you—”
“Brighthouse can do it for 15% less.” Mr. Bellamy, fancy shoes, fancy shirt, fancy-ass khakis, fancy shades, tilts his fancy head. “I don’t mean to pressure you, son. You know I’m a fair guy. I know you have a business to run. But 15% is 15%.”
“I understand, Mr. Bellamy.” Wyatt swallows, but maintains his kind smile. “Brighthouse has a much larger operation. Several employees. They can bulk-order at a volume, which I can’t just—”
“You know what I like about you?” Mr. Bellamy cuts him off. “You don’t make excuses. Look at yourself. All you accomplished. This …” He waves a hand at the room. “This little shop.” He leans in. “I’m not asking you to become Brighthouse, son. You can’t. I’m asking you to work with me here.”
I linger by the orchid like we’re both watching this unfold.
Work with me?
Yeah, I’ve heard that shit before.
Translates to: eat the difference, small potato.
“I’d rather keep my money local, obviously,” Mr. Bellamy goes on, voice sweeter than candy, like he’s doing Wyatt a favor by asking permission to rip him off. “I’m here, after all. Haven’t given up on you yet. Wouldn’t dare. I’m a nice guy, remember?”
“Of-Of course, Mr. Bellamy. I—”
“And I’ll have many more events coming up that need similar arrangements. I’m not just a one-and-done. Let’s make each other happy, alright?”
Wyatt’s smile doesn’t waver. Neither does his kind voice. “I’m happy to work with you on reducing the price. Perhaps we could revisit the design. The custom arrangements you wanted. Less of the premium blooms. That could bring the price down, which I—”
Mr. Bellamy laughs suddenly.
Like a clown just ran up and tickled him.
“Wyatt, Wyatt, I know …” His hand finds Wyatt’s shoulder and squeezes it to death. “I know your job isn’t easy. But I have needs, too. I can’t let down my family. They want what they want. I need the premium blooms. The custom design.”
“I understand, sir, but—”
“What I like about our relationship is I’m not just a number to you. I’m like your long-lost uncle. Worked with your dad back in the day. Working with you now. You’re like family.” He chuckles lightly. “I know you’re creative. You make things happen. Can you make something happen for me?”
Wyatt’s smile doesn’t move.
His fingers do.
Curl once against the counter. Uncurl.