Work Text:
It’s somewhere near the beginning of April when the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen walks into your shop. And you’re very gay, and you’ve been on a dating app. So you definitely know what beautiful is. (Screw you, Karkat)
Shes almost radiant, and maybe that’s the halo of light from the setting sun behind her head, but that’s kind of irrelevant when she opens her eyes and the iridescent gold eyeshadow perfectly complements the light purple contact lenses she has in. And boy are you a sucker for colors. Complements and beautiful matches and the wheels of rainbow and sunflowers and matching white waxflower and peonies. Vegetables used to be your game, and your grandpa died, and you sold his pumpkin farm to his neighbor, and you just moved to the city and started doing plants a whole other way.
Sweet Georgia peach in a metallic New York City suburb, is what Dave calls you over the phone. Karkat rolls his eyes and closes skype before you can even protest that you’re not from Georgia.
You’re from Iowa. different.
It’s much less populated and much prettier.
Short but well manicured fingernails tap on the counter in front of you, and you realize you’ve forgotten to say anything. Mayne you should ask what she’s here for. Or say anything, really.
“My sincerest apologies for wandering in so close to your store closing hour, but I’m afraid I lost track of time.”
Ohhh, her voice is so deep and soft. Her lips are gold, as well, and her skin is clear and free of the freckles so visible on your own. You feel absurdly embarrassed of the look you’re sporting today. And you’ve never gotten your nails done. And your braid is in thick pigtails, and you’re wearing floral overalls, and she’s looking fresh and designed and perfect.
It takes a lot of stammering, but you manage to fumble out your notebook. “Right! Right,” you say, pulling a pen from the front pocket of your flannel and gesturing for her to follow you.
You take her to the wide windows in front of the cooler that holds all of your current and prepped flowers. There are some arrangements in the back, as well as a couple of funeral stands and a few bouquets waiting on the wedding you’re doing tomorrow. The woman looks on them as if charmed by such simple pleasantries. Your style of arrangement is somewhat traditional, but your designs hold a specific flair that has been attractive to your repeat customers. A few of the older hotels, a car dealership outside of town, and the banquet halls for three different convention centers. You do a lot of weddings and stuff too.
“What were you interested in purchasing today?” You ask the beautiful woman, glancing up at her with your pen ready.
When you meet her gaze, shes already staring at you. Her lips are quirked just so, and when she notices that you’ve noticed, she quickly looks away and red blooms on her cheeks.
“I need decoration for an event,” she replies, after a few pregnant seconds. “A book signing of mine.”
With a grin, you gesture to the table behind you. It’s wooden and smooth, with a glass top. “Of course. I have enough time for a consultation now if you like.”
As she’s nodding and you’re pulling out a seat for her, one of your designers comes out and announces he’s going to head home. You know he’ll be the last one out, and that he’ll have set out all the lists for the delivery drivers who will be in at 3am. Gotta start early so close to the city.
“Say hi to your wife for me,” you tell him, and he replies an affirmative before heading out.
The woman at the table remains still as you pull out a chair for yourself, and slip an iPad from beneath the counter nearby for starting a form.
You’re opening your mouth when she begin to speak. It comes out of her like a child admitting to a lie, and her face goes even more red, even as she continues. Maybe she feels bad for interrupting you? Oh well. You’re used to it.
“I would like shades of purple. Preferably one light and one dark, with filler of your choosing,” she says, and you skip down the page to fill that in.
“How about a name first?” You ask, and she stumbles over what she’s about to say next. The facade almost breaks on her face.
“Rose lalonde,” she says, meeting your eyes for but a second before looking back at the glass case on the side of the room. She takes in a deep breath, and resettles her own features before you’re once more the center of her focus. “My apologies.”
You grin at her, charmed. Even now she’s frowning a little at herself, and you feel fit to start giggling if she gets any sillier in manner. Her nails are tapping again, and you put in the name, get some more basic information like venue and pickup and drop off time. Coordinator, venue owner, all that.
Before you can help yourself, you’re saying the joke she’s probably thought of about a million times herself.
“Judging by your name, can I assume you would like roses as the main flower?” You ask her, knowing what your smile looks like and not expecting her to say yes.
Which she does, that is. She says yes.
“Yes.”
(Like you needed to say that or something)
“Oh wow, really?” You ask, openly incredulous. “I’d'a thought you’d be tired of Roses by now.”
Rose blinks her golden eyes, gives you a tired look, and folds her hands on the table. She inspects the black polish with disdain.
“Yes, Roses,” she sighs, and you know there’s a part of the story you’re missing. “It was my mother’s stipulation on paying for the event as my late birthday gift.”
You find yourself stifling a snort before you enter notes into the flower preferences. Next to it, you add carnations and peonies. Lots of filler green to accentuate. And slivered leaf accents. Rose leans over the table, looking at your notes.
“You’re quite right, there,” she murmurs, face a little close to yours. She smells fantastic. Dammit. “Though if we could keep babys breath out of the picture it would be ideal. And no lilies.”
You write down waxflower in for a filler flower, and some stock and a couple of different ideas fr vases.
“How many arrangements do you need?” You ask once she’s withdrawn again. When you look up, shes grinning like she’s gotten the cream. “And what’s the budget?”
“No budget,” she tells you. You almost drop your pen on the floor. No budget? Even famous people have flower budgets. “As for the arrangements, I need a Garland for the front of the table, matching pedestal arrangements to go on top of the main table. After that, you should do whatever you like. No expenses should be barred.”
Oh God.
The options are so limitless it hurts your head for a second. You try asking her how many other tables she has, and she gives you a vague number. You ask her if she wants a corsage, she tells you it’s your choice. You mention putting up a trellis, as a joke, and she tells you it’s a marvelous idea.
Holy shit.
“Is crystal okay for the pots?”
“Black, please, if you have it.”
“Black?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a theme, at least?!” You finally ask, feeling hassled. But this is a huge order. If she wants you to do whatever, and her budget is unlimited, and there will be press there?? That’s unbelievably good publicity.
Rose’s face actually turns sincere, at that point. She gazes into the distance a little, and this is a glimpse into a real person, a young person, someone you could know.
“Magical. Whimsical. My books are about wizards,” she explains. Like it’s the answer to everything.
With sparkles in her very eyes.
The clock ticks.
“….wizards.”
“Yes,” she sighs. “Magic.”
Ooookay.
You really gotta look her up, then.
So she rights really good books…
About Wizards.
With a shake of your head, you force yourself to get away from the idea and turn back toward your client.
Event, Purple flowers. Lots of different kinds. Add purple orchid blooms to the list? Maybe? (are purple roses even possible to find in good quality?)
You focus on Rose, and soon enough she’s showing herself out the door.
As you slide your key into the lock, preparing to turn it from the inside so you can throw all the deadbolts and window covers, she touches your hand.
Her face is red, and she’s very obviously trying to sound smooth as hell as she stares you in the eyes. There’s a spot of white-silver on the inner point of each eye, and it’s hypnotizing. Not as hypnotizing as her mouth, though, when she says—
“You should come to the book signing.”
Your brain slides to a halt, and you cock a brow at her. The setting sun behind her is just making her whole… thing… decadent. Buzzed natural hair and all.
“I’ll be there. I’m part of the crew,” you say, with a laugh.
She grins at you herself, and you feel like you’ve stepped right into the trap she set for you.
“As a guest,” she clarifies. “To see me.”
It’s your turn to feel hot in the face. You?? She wants… you? To show up?
“Romantically, dear,” she clarifies further.
Static fills your head, your stomach flips, it’s the most pleasant sensation and you’re suddenly full of excitement and happiness and your heart is racing, and.
She looks satisfied with that, and waves as she walks off toward a very nice-looking car.
“I’ll see you there!” she calls.
Oh boy.
Oh boy!
But what will you wear?!
....YOU DIDN'T EVEN TELL HER YOUR NAME!