Maybe This Time(3)

My brows dipped down. Seriously? I wasn’t sure what to make of such a brazen romantic gesture. If that’s what he was going for. Was it?

I looked at the boxes in my arms, transferred them awkwardly to one hip, and reached out for the flower. With my hand halfway to its destination, I noticed a small green wire wrapped up the stem and supported the bulb.

I paused. “Where did you get that?”

The question seemed to surprise him, his smile faltered a bit, but he recovered with, “It doesn’t matter where it came from, only where it’s going.” He extended his arm farther.

I set the boxes down on the floor and took the flower to inspect it. Sure enough, the wire was wrapped exactly the way I’d done it on over a hundred tulips that very morning. Hours and hours of my life were spent with that wire, in fact.

“You took this from one of the vases in the cafeteria?” I asked, incredulous.

He nodded. “Yes, I rescued it from its tacky prison. It looks happier already.”

My mouth dropped open.

“No worries. There were hundreds of them. Nobody will be able to tell.”

“No worries?” I turned and marched back to the cafeteria.

“I sense I’ve offended you,” Mr. Obvious said, following me. Or Mr. Entitled? Maybe I’d go for a hyphenated last name since both applied.

I stood in the doorway and scanned the centerpieces.

“You’re telling me that you’re going to know which one of these flower arrangements I found this flower in,” he said.

“Found? Yes, I’m going to tell you exactly which flower arrangement you stole this flower from, considering I’ve spent the last eight hours putting them together.”

He coughed. “Oh. Did I say tacky? I meant … uh … festive.”

I rolled my eyes.

I saw him glance my way, as if sizing me up. I was wearing a silky green blouse with a floral knee-length skirt. My party attire. But even outside of work events, I liked fun colors and classic styles.

“These centerpieces aren’t your design anyway,” he pronounced, “so I don’t know why you’re upset.”

I scowled. “There is no way you could possibly know that.”

He shrugged like he disagreed, then said, “I still don’t think you’ll be able to tell which one I took it from.”

“I will.”

“Without counting the flowers?”

“You’re adding rules to this made-up game?”

“Yes!” he said proudly. “If you can’t tell which arrangement is missing a flower just by looking, then nobody else will be able to tell either and you must accept my gift.”

“Can something that was stolen really be called a gift?” I asked, and began weaving in and out of tables.

“Deal?”

Leo’s grandson sure was annoying. Maybe he was John’s grandson. John was known for being demanding. But I could’ve sworn I’d met all John’s grandkids at the town’s Fourth of July barbecue the previous year. “And if I win?” I asked.

One side of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “If you win, I owe you a dozen flowers that I must pay for.”

“A dozen flowers arranged by me.”

“Only if they don’t involve foil.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “It’s called cellophane. And they won’t.”

“I sense this is going to be expensive.”

Based on his appearance, I was more than sure he could afford it. “I sense that you need to make restitution for dozens and dozens of past stolen flowers.”

When he didn’t argue, I knew I’d guessed right. I wasn’t the first girl he’d tried to impress with a flower, acquired without any forethought. My eyes moved from studying him standing there in his arrogance to studying the flowers again. It didn’t take me long to see the lopsided arrangement. He’d taken the flower from the right side, throwing off the entire shape. I sighed, made my way over to the table, and tucked the tulip I was holding into its rightful place.

“Orange calla lilies are my favorite,” I said, walking back toward the hallway.

“Did you see me take it?” he asked as I passed him. “Is that how you knew?”

“No, I told you. I arranged all of these. It was obvious.”

“Well, I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. And seriously, don’t steal my flowers again.” I left him standing there in the cafeteria, staring after me.

In the hallway, I pulled out my phone and sent a message to Micah: PSA, there’s an entitled guest roaming the halls. Engage at your own risk!

A train of wheelchairs rounded the corner and blocked my way for a moment as several nurses escorted their patients toward the lobby.

“Sophie,” Mr. Washington said as he was being wheeled by. His nurse, Kayla, stopped. “I think my wife once owned a skirt like that.”

“Is that a compliment or a statement, Mr. W?” I asked.

“Always a compliment, Miss Sophie. You look stunning.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you know how to tie a bow tie?” He held up the bright red material.

“I do.”

“Could you help out an old man with arthritis?”

“Of course.” I stepped forward and draped the tie around his collar.