Page 75 of Champagne Fizz

20

KENDALL

Birds of Paradise is a locally sourced exotic flower farm and one of my absolute favorite places on the planet. Their showroom in Waikiki is an enchanted conservatory-style greenhouse filled floor to ceiling with buckets of flower blooms. Every time I go here, I feel like I’ve died and gone to florist heaven.

The owner, Becca, who I can only describe as an albino punk-rock princess—pale skin, silver mermaid hair, tattoos of exotic flowers—is the kind of person you’d expect to work at a vampire-themed tattoo parlor, but instead she’s developed the world’s most exotic green thumb. She stands next to a bin of celosia plants (which Becca affectionally calls the brain plant) and is gushing over the fact that Ned and Olivia decided to go with the dark and decadent theme for their wedding. She’s been talking my ear off for the last half hour about the wow-factor I need for the reception: purple orchids, queen protea, and all things jewel-toned in emerald and blackberry.

I’m listening—or I’m trying to listen, this is my job after all, I should be focused—but Becca’s orchid and palm-leaf paradise is like an aphrodisiac reminding me of the jungle grove Simon took me to the other day.

The golden green light …

The smell of moss and jasmine …

That earthy-scent that tastes like a moan in the back of my throat …

“Are you even listening to me, Kendall?” Becca asks, her pencil-lined eyebrows scrunching suspiciously.

I cough, totally caught.

“Um sorry, I was—” My face flushes and I have to use the printed photographs of my table arrangements to fan my face. “It’s a little warm in here.”

“It’s a greenhouse,” Becca responds dryly as if would-be vampires like her can easily live in the shade of palm leaves and one-hundred-percent humidity.

“Sorry,” I repeat. “I’ve been distracted.”

By the gloriously hot memory of my open legs pressed against Simon’s lap.

Lady Lada has taken over my brain. It seems her sole purpose in life is to get me in the same position with Simon as soon as possible.

“What were you saying?” I ask, trying to focus on the bouquet Becca’s been mocking up while we’ve been walking among the trays of flowers.

“Several of these blooms won’t be in season on the wedding date.” Becca points to the reception arrangements in my photo. “We’re going to need to find a substitute. I was thinking something in the exotic nightshade family. A Datura Angel Trumpet for example. They would hang nicely from the chandelier at the center of the restaurant.”

“Have you ever been to Flambé?” I blurt out. She seems like the kind of woman who might frequent an establishment made for sin and the senses.

“It’s pretty exclusive,” Becca says carefully. “I don’t know how you managed to book a wedding there without it being months in advance.”

“I’d love to say it’s my amazing wedding planner ju-ju,” I joke. “But the bride works there.”

Becca nods, but she hasn’t answered my question.

“You strike me as someone who might run in the same circles as the owner,” I continue to pry. Becca’s alternative look with tattoos and fancy hair seems like a vibe Arie would be drawn to. Plus, they both work in the same exotic, high-end niche of the service industry.

“Who, Arie and Simon?” Becca replies.

She does know them!Bothof them.

“Yes.” I nod. “Arie’s been … difficult.”

“Understatement,” Becca says bluntly. “Work with Simon.” She pulls out a flashy dinnerplate hibiscus for me to consider. “Always work with Simon. Everyone in town knows that Arie is a brilliant chef, but she’s also a tyrant.”

“Y-you know Simon? You’ve worked with him before?”

Becca nods, causing an irate pang of jealousy to ripple through my gut as if she’d saidhe’s my ex. Which is completely unjustified. I barely know Simon. He’s not my boyfriend. I have no claim to him.

“Simon’s the only level-headed one up there,” Becca admits. “That place wouldn’t function without him. Don’t get me wrong, the place is gorgeous, and the food is to-die for. You’re definitely designing a wedding for your portfolio—and mine thank-you-very-much!” Becca waves the hibiscus in my face.

“Too colorful,” I reject, shooing the hibiscus away and pointing toward the bat flowers and calatheas.

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