Page 3 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
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 dick if it hit her in the face.”
Who apparently also wears grandma panties.
And this is how he sees me. I don’t care. I DO NOT CARE!
Without missing a beat, Nico drawls, “You’ll probably need to run over and stock up so your little ol’ mangina doesn’t get chilly under those jeans, A.J.”
“Nah,” says A.J., giving it right back, “I never wear underwear. Too restrictive. My mangina’s huge, brother. It needs room to breathe.”
A new piece of information about A.J. Edwards I could have gone my entire life without knowing: he goes commando. I’m not allowing myself to think about the other part. The “huge” part. Though judging by the size of his boots . . .
Without turning around, or otherwise acknowledging his existence, I say to Nico and Kat, “Seriously, thank you. And now I’m not doing the flowers for cost; I’m doing them for free.”
Kat waves her hand dismissively. “Out of the question. And you’re not doing them for cost, either. We already talked about that, dummy.”
“But it’s my wedding present to you guys—”
“Just having you do the flowers is enough of a present—”
“Kat, there’s no way I’m making money off you—”
“Why the hell not? If we weren’t using you, we’d have to pay some other florist! I’d rather give you the money.”
“And I’d rather be Beyoncé, but that’s not happening, either.”
“Chloe—”
“Kat—”
“Shut up, girls,” says Nico with affection, effectively ending the argument.
Except it doesn’t, because I’ll never send them a bill. Even if Kat wasn’t my best friend, the kind of publicity she and Nico are giving me is priceless.
A.J. has moved to my right side and is looking down at the portfolios of my work with an expression I interpret as nausea. He glances up and finds me looking at him. His amber eyes—eyes that could actually be beautiful if they weren’t so cold—narrow. He says flatly, “Yeah. Shut up.”
