a week, he went in and she let him go into the refrigerated back room and pick out his own bouquet from the buckets of blossoms there. She would never admit it, but he knew no one else was allowed into that back room. He never told her anything about that bouquet, or who it was for, and Katie did not ask, but probably assumed the worst of him.
Katie found him predictable. Katie, who looked as if she was trying out for librarian of the year.
Every time she saw him, she put those glasses on that made her look stern and formidable. And the dresses! Just because she was the flower girl, did that mean there was some kind of rule that she had to wear flowered dresses, the kind with lace collars, and that tied at the back? She had curves under there, but for some reason she had decided not to be attractive. She wore flat black shoes, as if she was ashamed of her height, which he thought was amazing. Didn’t she know models were tall and skinny, just like her? Okay, most of them had a little more in the chest department, but at least hers looked real.
It all added up to one thing. Decent.
He smiled evilly, wondering how the flower girl would feel if she knew he had covertly studied her chest and pronounced it authentic?
She’d probably throw a vase of flowers right at his head.
At the thought of little Miss Calm and Cool and Composed being riled enough to throw something, Dylan felt the oddest little shiver. Challenge? He’d always been a man who had a hard time backing down from a challenge.
His sister had said a decent girl wouldn’t go out with him. So much easier to focus on that than to think about the other things Tara had said, or about calling his father. Besides if a decent girl would go out with him that would make Tara wrong about everything.
Why not Katie? He’d always been reluctantly intrigued by her, even though she was no obvious beauty. She was cute, in that deliberately understated way of hers, and he realized he liked her hair: light brown, shiny, wisps of it falling out of her ponytail. Still, she could smile more often, wear a dusting of makeup to draw some attention to those amazing hazel eyes, but no, she chose to make herself look dowdy.
She did fit his sister’s definition of decent. Wholesome she was. And smart? He was willing to bet she knew the name of the current mayor of Hillsboro, and who the prime minister of Canada was, too. She would know how to balance her checkbook, where to get the best deal on toilet paper—though if you even mentioned toilet paper around her she would probably turn all snooty—and the titles of at least three Steinbeck novels.
He was just as willing to bet she wouldn’t know a basketball great from a hockey sensation. He liked how she seemed unsettled around him, but did her darnedest to hide it. He was pretty sure she watched him run every day.
So, Katie thought he was predictable? So, his Tara didn’t think a decent girl would go out with him?
If there was one thing Dylan McKinnon excelled at it was being unpredictable. It was doing the unexpected. It was taking people by surprise. That was what had made him a superb athlete and now an excellent businessman. He always kept his edge.
His phone rang. It was the receptionist.
“Heather on the line.”
“I’m not here.”
He’d talk to Heather after she got her flowers. That should calm her down enough to be reasonable. There had been a hockey game on TV last night. No one in their right mind would have expected him to go to a fashion show instead of watching hockey. It was nearly the end of the season!
Heather had promised him girls modeling underwear, but the truth was he didn’t care. He was growing weary of his own game.
Secretly, he didn’t care if he never saw one more woman strutting around in her underwear again. One more top that showed a belly button, or one more pair of figure-hugging jeans. He didn’t care if he never saw one more body piercing, one more head of excruciatingly blond hair, one more set of suspiciously inflated breasts.
He felt like a man trying to care about all the things the wealthy successful businessman ex-athlete was supposed to care about, but somehow his sister was right. He wasn’t outrunning anything. His heart wasn’t in it anymore. He wanted, no, yearned for something different. He wanted to be surprised for a change, instead of always being the one surprising others.
He thought of her again, of Katie, of those enormous hazel eyes, intelligent, wary, behind those glasses.
On an impulse he picked up the phone, rolled through his Rolodex, punched out her number.
“The Flower Girl.”
“Hey, Katie, my lady, Dylan.”
Silence.
Then, ever so politely, “Yes?”
“Would you—” What was he doing? Had he been on the verge of asking her out for dinner? Katie, the flower girl? He felt an uncharacteristic hesitation.
“Yes?”
“Uh, name three Steinbeck novels for me? I’m doing a questionnaire. I could win a prize. A year’s worth of free coffee from my favorite café.” He lied with such ease, another talent that Katie would disapprove of heartily.
“You don’t know the names of three of Steinbeck’s novels?” she asked, just a hint of pity in her cool voice.
“You know. Dumb jock.”
“Oh.” She said, as if she did know, as if it had completely slipped her mind—or it didn’t count—that he ran a multi-million-dollar business. “Which ones would you like? The most well-known ones? The first ones? Last ones?”
“Any old three.”
“Hmm. East of Eden. The Grapes of Wrath. Of Mice and Men. Though, personally, I’d have to say I think his finest work was a short story called ‘The Chrysanthemums.’”
He laughed. “That figures. About flowers, right?”
“About an unhappy marriage.”
“Is there any other kind?” he asked, keeping his tone light. In actual fact, his parents had enjoyed an extraordinary union—until unexpectedly the “worse” part of the better-or-worse equation had hit and his father had turned into a man Dylan didn’t even know.
She was silent, and he realized he’d hit a little too close to home, a reminder of why he couldn’t ever ask her out. She was sensitive and sweet, and he was, well, not.
And then she said, softly, with admirable bravery given the fact she had presumably not had a good marriage, at all, “I like to hope.”
Oh-oh! A girl who liked to hope, despite the fact divorce was part of her history. Still, if she hoped you’d think she’d try just a little harder to attract.
“Not for myself personally,” she added, her voice suddenly strangled. “I mean, I just want to believe, somewhere, somehow, someone is happy. Together. With another someone.”
He snorted, a sound redolent with the cynicism he had been nurturing for the past year.
The word hope used in any conversation pertaining to marriage should be more than
