Page 17 of Wild Flower

My blood, sweat, and heart.

The farm is at my parents’ house, but my shop is in downtown Waikiki. As I walk up to it, I can already feel the angry buzz in my chest settling.

The front of my store looks like a conservatory from France with green ribs of metal that hold up a hundred panes of glass. It’s like those swirling Metro signs in Paris, designed in the Belle Epoch and vining with nature’s influence. I was ecstatic when I found this property to rent. I literally leapt at the chance to score this location (despite its expensive price tag). Take massive action, right? That’s what the manifest-your-destiny gurus say: leap into the things you love and the universe will pay you back in spades. Well, this one has paid me back in courage and light.

I unlock the front door and walk into a kaleidoscope of greenery: hanging vines, potted plants, cut flowers. It’s like walking into a confectionery of colorful sweets, only the macarons and tiny cakes are orchids and jade vines and gladiolas. Shafts of blue and gold dance through the fragrant hoya odorata vines that arch over the entrance, the cascading flowers illuminating like morning lanterns in the sun. I’m not a religious person, butthisfills my lungs with the spark of spirituality, making me wonder about things larger and more important than myself. Nature can be cultivated and grown, nurtured to blossom, but at its core, it’s always free and wild.

I breathe deeply, letting the scents and humidity kiss my cheeks. Every one of these plants was sewn and cared for by me, collected together in this shop. And yes, there are a hundred things to do as a business owner: ledgers, payroll, orders to fulfill. But nothing is as perfect as walking into this vibrant jungle.

My jungle.

“Did Archer treat you well last night?”

Aaaaaaand then there’s the fact that Miranda actually works for me.

I turn to my best friend as she waltzes up in a white sundress, her blond hair flouncing above a pair of cat-eye glasses—also white. The fashion statement is topped off with a pair of pristine white rain boots, which she doesn’t need because it isn’t raining. But that’s not the point of fashion (or so I’m told). In contrast, I’m in a pair of skinny jeans and a grey tank that saysI’m Pricklywith a cute illustration of a cactus. My hair is loosely braided, and I didn’t bother with make-up.

Per her morning ritual, Miranda grabs the folded chalkboards by the door and starts to set them up, giving me a pout that says she’s still waiting for me to answer her question.

“He told you his name?” I ask, deflecting to give myself a moment to figure out what I’m going to say.

“Of course he did.” Miranda shrugs, picking up the flower buckets for the front stand.

“Well, you definitely gave himmy name,” I reply, that volley a barb, my neck prickling at the memory of Archer’s voice in my ear.

“That’s how introductions happen,” Miranda defends. “You exchange names.”

“Only you gave himmy name, not yours.” I walk behind the register and flick on the lights and misters.

“Did he purr it into your ear like the sex god he is?” Miranda jokes, and I almost trip over a stack of pots by my knees, my eyes flicking to her in alarm.

“Do you know him?” I pry, trying to hide my interest.

“Yeah, right,” she scoffs. “I wish. If I knew that hottie, I wouldn’t be dating Kyle, that’s for sure.” She turns the crank next to the door and starts opening the awnings. “But hey, chicks before dicks, right? I know you’ve got a thing for dudes with long hair … so why not tip the man extra and ask him to entertain myvery singlefriend.”

“You gave him money to hang out with me?” I gawk.

Damn, if she knew what her money bought me instead …

“No, of course not!” Miranda rolls her eyes at me. “I paid for dinner, tipped him thenormalamount, and then gave him some very excellenttipsabout your interests.”

“Tips?” I swing around the counter, turning on the water to the hose at my feet. I’m not beyond blasting my best friend with water if need be. “Whatexactlydid you tell him?”

Somehow Archer got the idea that I’d like a hot threesome in a crowded restaurant, and I know Miranda isn’t above saying something ridiculous like:My friend reads a lot of Reverse Harem books. Round up the cowboys, and take her for a ride, would ya?

Miranda shrugs, playing coy. I grab the nozzle at my feet and blast a warning shot right past her elbow. The water puffs against the glass pane beside her, misting her in the ricochet.

“It was innocent!” Miranda squeals, hiding behind the large leaves of a philodendron.

“Telling him my name and that I’m single isn’t innocent!” I reply, holding the spray nozzle up like I might go Charlie’s Angels on her ass.

“It’s more innocent than saying you read three erotic novels a week and need some major real-life action so you don’t turn into the world’s sexiest tattooed nun!”

I take a shot. “You didn’t tell him that!”

Water sprays, causing Miranda to laugh as she uses the philodendron as a shield.

“Tell me you had a good time,” she replies instead of denying it.

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