Page 9 of Forget Me Knot

I am so entirely confused and so completely deranged. Clearly, I misread every signal from last night. The man I was all too ready to hitch my wagon to only twelve hours ago is now staring me down like a cockroach scuttling around in his kitchen.

“You never did tell me your name.”

The next moment can only be described as a trainwreck. If I were a passerby, peeping into the giant, gorgeous window, I’dplaster my cheeks right to the glass and wouldn’t be able to tear myself away.

He looks up, startled. As if I asked him the answer to a quantum physics equation. For all I know, the mandoesknow quantum physics. Because I know ZERO about him.

I can’t take a hint, so I take a step forward, instinctively following the man who so obviously does not want to be followed. When he flinches in response, I reach out a hand and laugh—again—because apparently that's the only response my brain can manage when faced with my own delusions. Something in his face and body language turns me upside down. It’s like he’s a completely different person today. No longer does he wear the charming smile or confidence of the man who strutted through my door last night.

This man is terse. Quiet. Withdrawn. He’s a trapped animal looking for an escape route. It makes me feel foolish and unreasonably sad.

He takes another step back and glares at the speakers hanging from the rafters.

“Your music's too loud.”

My hands immediately find my hips. “Excuse me?”

“I’mnext door. At Petals.” He flicks his head to where the quaint flower shop is nestled on the other side of the wall, and I do a double take.

He’s the flower shop owner or does he just work there? Did he make the beautiful arrangements I’ve received? I find myself staring down his curséd forearms again, where the brawn is evident, only highlighted by where his grey henley stops midarm. Those do not seem like the muscles of a man who merely trims flowers all day.

I’m shaken from my assessment when he shifts on his feet. “The music’s too… much. I need you to turn it down.” He nods like he said what he came to say and turns on his heel.

Suddenly, I’m fuming. Not only has the man marched in with behavior my six-year-old niece would be appalled over, but his hot and cold attitude is giving me whiplash. I’m mentally throwing all my preemptive plans out the window as we speak. Or don’t speak, as he’s charging the door like he can’t get away fast enough.

“Hey!” I follow, shouting over the music, because, yeah, okay, it is a little loud—and especially since he’s managed to get halfway out the door. I do not wanna get off on the wrong foot with my new, grossly attractive neighbor, but I was already prepared to run away with him, so I'm pretty sure I crossed the threshold of propriety somewhere between steamy eye contact in front of the crowd last night and the glass of wine I sipped with my sister afterwards, whilst musing over said eye contact. “Who do you think you are?!”

He stops in his tracks outside the door, and I bump into his back, not expecting the abrupt stop.

“Oof. Sorry.” I cross my arms and attempt to look taller. “Actually, I’m not sorry. This is my shop. You didn’t seem to have a problem with my music or my playlist or me last night, but then you march into my shop and you… you…”

What do I want to say here? You didn’t immediately drop to one knee and propose?

“You are… rude!” There. That’ll show him. I stomp my foot for good measure.

He has the decency to look embarrassed, and just when I think I’ve gotten through to him, the man whips his hands from his pockets and crosses his arms, mirroring my stance with much more intimidation and defined muscle mass. It’s irritating and disturbingly hot.

“Sorry.” He clenches his fists. “Turn down your music,please.”

With that, he turns and heads back to Petals.The sunshine striped awning hanging over the flower shop welcomes the walking rain cloud as he slams the door behind him.

I’m left on the sidewalk staring at the cute bicycle brimming with daisies and sunflowers, realizing I still don’t know his name. But when I do finally find out what to call him, I’ll be adding it to the top of myicklist.

“So he just ghosted you?” Emory dips a salted pretzel in a creamy beer cheese sauce and moans as she takes another bite.

“I don’t think ghosting is actually the correct term.” I rip a hunk of pretzel off and aggressively shove it in my mouth. “It’s more like he acted completely oblivious to ever having met me. Like we didn’t share amoment.”

One of Emory’s eyebrows lifts in that way that I know means she wants to add her two cents, but I am still the petulant teenager who knows better than her, and she knows I won’t listen.

“Just say it.”

“It’s just that”—she licks cheese sauce off her thumb—“you tend to romanticize things in your head a bit, Dinah Belle. You always have.”

“I don’t do that.”

“You do.” She keeps chewing, inhaling pretzels as if she isn’t imparting an annoying bit of wisdom over our adult snack time. “You love the idea of love. With your romance books and your reality TV—”

I try to interject, but she shakes her head, and I give her the respect she’s earned.

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