Make Me Sin

3

I watch from the corner of my eye as he rifles impatiently through the Lucite rack of designer greeting cards by the cash register, fingers flicking over them in contempt. He abruptly abandons the cards to strut past the tiered display of French buckets filled with fresh cut orchids because he’s spotted the dishy brunette in the short shorts and stilettos browsing the scented candle shelves near the back.

Of course he’d spot the brunette. This is a man who drafts women like they’re fantasy football picks. Most of whom are of the paid variety. From what I’ve read, seen, and heard, A.J. makes Charlie Sheen look like a choir boy.

“Chloe?”

Kat’s voice snaps me back to attention. She and Nico are looking at me expectantly. I realize one of them has said something I haven’t heard. “Sorry. What was that?”

One corner of Nico’s mouth curves up. I suspect he knows exactly where my attention has strayed.

I will kill him with my bare hands if he mentions anything to A.J.

Kat says, “Nico talked to his publicist yesterday about the wedding. The press, and all that.”

The two of them look like they’re sharing a delicious secret. I have no idea why. “Um. Okay?”

“We’ve sold the photo rights to People magazine.”

“Oh. Wow. That’s amazing! I hope they’re paying you a boatload of money—”

“No, honey, that’s not what I’m trying to tell you.” Kat leans forward over the table. She’s smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

I look back and forth between her and Nico. “What then?”

Kat waits a beat before she speaks. When she does, I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. “Along with the coverage of the wedding, they’re going to do a feature on Fleuret!”

Behind us, the brunette giggles at something A.J. has murmured. They’re too far away for me to make out what he’s said, but her laugh sounds distinctly sensual. I resist the urge to turn and find out if money is changing hands. “What do you mean a feature? Like, they’ll mention my shop?”

Nico laughs. It’s his signature husky chuckle, genetically designed to make a woman’s ovaries sit up and beg. I’m immune to it now, having heard it so many times; however, judging by the look on Kat’s face, she’s anything but.

I love how completely in love they are. It’s beautiful. Even if watching them together sometimes makes me feel like I’m missing out on the world’s greatest inside joke. Which is silly, because, like I said before, I’m perfectly happy with my boyfriend.

But.

Like death, the concept of true love is one of those things that’s really hard to grasp until you see it. Once you do, there’s no going back.

Nico says warmly, “No, darlin’. They’re not gonna mention your shop. They’re gonna do a spread on your shop, and you. As in, an entire article about the florist we used to accompany the wedding story.”

Words swirl around in my mouth, but none of them decide to land on my tongue. Heart racing, I stare at Nico and Kat in utter disbelief.

Delighted by my obvious astonishment, Kat laughs and claps her hands. “We made it a condition of the deal. If they wanted exclusive coverage of the ‘wedding of the year,’ they had to do a special article about our wedding florist. Fleuret’s going to be famous, Lo! You’re going to be famous!”

Actually, what I think I’m going to be, is sick. I whisper, “Dude.”

Kat laughs louder. Nico says, “You deserve the recognition, Chloe. Your arrangements are fuckin’ amazin’.”

Nico’s Matthew McConaughey southern drawl makes everything sound sexy, even when he’s cursing. Which he frequently is. Right now, he could be reciting every curse word known to man and I wouldn’t care.

“You guys.” It’s all I can say because my throat is getting tight. My eyes fill with water.

All I’ve wanted since I bought the shop from Mr. and Mrs. Feldman when they retired three years ago, was to turn it into the best floral design studio in LA. My parents thought I was insane to try to rescue a failing flower shop—considering the tuition they spent for me at USC while I was pursuing that English Lit degree I’ll never use, I can hardly blame them—but I’ve always loved flowers, and I jumped at the chance to make Fleuret mine and turn it around. I’d started working at the shop part-time in high school, and it’s been my first love ever since. I put every dime of my trust fund into it. I’ve put every dollar I’ve earned back into it. I’ve put countless hours of sweat equity into it.

And now my best friend and her superstar fiancé are telling me they’ve arranged for me to get press for the shop. Not just any press. People magazine. And not just a little mention. A feature.

This is quite possibly the best day of my life.

Holding back a sob, I jump from the chair and crush Kat into a hug. Then I crush Nico into a hug. Then I start laughing madly like the Sicilian from The Princess Bride just before he keels over dead from drinking the iocane-laced wine.

I think I might be losing it.

At precisely the height of my joy, a sarcastic voice speaks from over my shoulder. “Let me guess. Sale on grandma panties at Neiman Marcus?”

On a scale of one to ten, my dislike of A.J. shoots from about a nine to a solid, searing twenty. I stiffen, releasing Nico. Face flaming, I remember that the last time I saw A.J., he called me a “stuck-up, frigid rich girl.” Who, additionally, “wouldn’t know a d**k if it hit her in the face.”