Chapter Text
Zinnias, ranunculus, peach roses, and baby’s breath cover the counter to make the order you received yesterday over the phone.
‘Could I place an order for a centerpiece arrangement?’ the man on the other end of the line asks.
‘Of course, sir. Are there any particular flowers you want to include?’
‘Uh, well. I’m not really sure, I guess,’ a breathy chuckle echoes through the receiver. ‘I was hoping I could request colors. I don’t really know much about flowers.’
‘No problem, sir,’ you assure. ‘What colors would you like?’
‘Orange and pink,’ he says with a rather uncertain intonation.
‘Sounds great. Can I get a name for the order?’
‘Russo.’
You hum as you scribble down his name on the receipt.
‘And your phone number?’
He rambles off a series of numbers that you copy down.
‘ And what day will you be by to pick them up?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Great. Thank you for your business, sir.’
Light eucalyptus foliage fills out the base of the arrangement nicely, highlighting the springtime nature of the warm colors. The flowers come next, peaches, pinks, and oranges with accents of white throughout. With a ribbon around the stems, you pop the flowers in some water and the fridge and begin work on another order from the small stack of receipts on the counter.
Bobbing your head and rapping along to the hip-hop station streaming from your speakers, you work quickly on a delicate bouquet of white daisies and forget me nots. The vase fills up with the petite flowers, artfully arranged to decorate dinner tables and mantles.
You work around the shop, adjusting the displays, picking out flowers that are beginning to wilt. Your business is small, quaint, and on a fairly quiet street. Buckets of peonies and garden roses adorn the patio in front of the door, and garlands of drying bouquets are hung upside down awaiting customers just inside.
You live and breathe this flower shop. You have worked hard for it, and you have no intention of letting it go any time soon.
“You can find me in the club,” you whisper, dipping the watering can into the vases of the displays. “Bottle fulla bub.”
The bell rings above the door, so you set down the watering can and move behind the counter, lowering the volume of 50 Cent on the radio. When you turn, a man is in front of you, standing in an expensive suit jacket, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes roaming the displays. He is attractive beyond reason, and completely out of place in your tiny flower shop filled to the brim with white carnations and purple hydrangeas.
“Hi, welcome to Garden City Flowers,” you say cheerily, drawing the man’s dark eyes to you.
A bright smile on your lips hides your curiosity as he walks to the counter, never breaking eye contact.
“Hello, I called in an order yesterday,” he says smoothly.
“The name?” you ask, ready to fetch the flowers from the back room.
“Russo.”
This is the man you spoke with on the phone yesterday? The awkward caller that told you he didn’t know much about flowers? The man in front of you is far from the one you pictured would be coming in today to pick up a particularly sweet, peach arrangement.
With a nod, you hustle to the back room, opening the fridge and finding the requested piece. You glance at the notes you scribbled on the receipt and the name Russo in all caps. Huh. Definitely not what you were expecting. You would think a bachelor like that would be in here buying red roses for a fiance or girlfriend. Maybe these are for someone, you think pessimistically, and you find yourself oddly disappointed by the fact.
“Here you are,” you say brightly, coating your unwarranted discontent as you place the bouquet on the counter, receipt in one hand, ringing up the order. You brave a glance at the customer, Russo, and find his hand rubbing the back of his neck like he is uncomfortable.
“Thank you,” he says, swiping the flowers off the counter after exchanging the money.
“You’re welcome, sir. It’s a particularly beautiful arrangement, if I do say so myself,” you smile.
He chuckles, nodding, examining the flowers. “Call me Billy.” His eyes flick to yours briefly before falling back to the arrangement. “They’ll look great on my table.”
You cock your head curiously, again surprised by the man in front of you. Flowers on the table is a particularly domestic habit, and you wonder what inspires it in him. “I’m glad. Thank you for your business, Billy.”
He makes for the exit, and before he can open the door, you call out, “Come back soon!”
Throwing a grin and a wink over his shoulder, Billy says, “I will,” and exits the shop, leaving you curiously confused at Billy Russo and his peculiar interest in flowers.