Page 5 of Wild Flower

“I could totally see you two hooking up,” Miranda continues, ignoring her date.

“No.” I shake my head. “He could see that thetwo of youwere about to hook up.” I nod to their escapades. “And he pitied me. Thus, he gave me something to wallow my sorrows in.” I hold up the shimmering drink.

“He gave you a drink on the house?” Miranda’s eyebrow hitches even higher (if that’s humanly possible). “He’s totally your type.”

“He doesn’t look like an exotic flower I can groom and cultivate into the perfect centerpiece for a wedding bouquet,” I toss back. “Or did you mean he’s someone I could getdirtywith?”

There’s a lot of literal dirt when you grow your own flowers, even when that farm only takes up a small one-acre plot in your parent’s backyard.

Miranda smiles like I hit the nail on the head.

“You even sell a t-shirt that says that,” Miranda gloats. That is true. I do sell t-shirts at the shop that sayDirty Girlon them, accompanied by a graphic of a woman gardening. It’s a bestseller.

I roll my eyes, even though I know my best friend just wants me to get laid (which she’d be double-downing on if she knew how hot Archer’s voice just made me). My eyes flit across the dining room, finding him helping another table by the picture window where his imposing frame is haloed by the moonlight reflecting off the bay. His backside looks particularly squeezable in those slacks, and I have to look away before Miranda catches me staring and starts making flower stamen jokes.

When you own an exotic flower shop, you get used to how many blooms have particularly phallic appendages: anthuriums, blue passion flowers, and of course the impressive voodoo lily with its large white stamen protruding out a single, curved petal. The voodoo lily is particularly sexual in its appearance (and hard to grow, but no one’s interested in the nuances of silt and soil mix, or PH levels).

“All I’m saying,” Miranda continues, noting my ogling, “is thatsomeoneought to be allowed into your greenhouse.”

“Are you calling me a work-a-holic or a prude?” I toss back.

“You’re the one who’s always telling me that evenexoticflowers should be plucked.” She glances at her boyfriend who seems annoyed that they’ve stopped their world championship game of tonsil hockey. Miranda leans over and kisses him not-so-innocently before unlatching herself again and announcing she has to go to the bathroom.

I sip my violet and absinthe drink as Miranda abandons me, leaving me alone with her boyfriend. Kyle frowns, his downturned expression accusing me of scaring off his date.

“You’re welcome to go join her in the ladies’ room,” I quip, which only makes his frown more prominent. Way to make things more awkward, Becca! Note to self, never be the third wheel at Flambé again. Even when there are hot waiters around.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t dislike Kyle. He’s fine. He has a steady job, and Miranda seems to think his uvula tastes divine. In case you aren’t up on your oral anatomy, the uvula is that flappy droplet shaped thing that hangs in the back of your mouth and gets inflamed when you’re sick (or your girlfriend decides to suck on it in public). I really should’ve said no to this invitation.

“So uh, how’s … work?” I ask, toying with the feather in my drink.

“Fine,” Kyle answers, followed by an awkward silence.

One-word responses are why I hate small talk. I down half my blue drink, feeling each excruciating second that Miranda is in the bathroom. Kyle and I stare at each other like we’re on a bad first date, realizing we have absolutely nothing to say to each other.

I dab the edge of my lip with a napkin and decide to do what I should’ve done the second I walked in the door and these two started making sexy eyes at one another—I should leave!

I snag my purse and pull out my credit card. “Have you seen the waiter,” I ask. “I should pay for my meal and leave you two love birds to—”

“Put that away!” Miranda says loudly, having magically returned from the bathroom. “I already paid,” she announces. “And we’re leaving.”

Thank God!

“Great.” I move to slide out of the booth, only Miranda’s hand slaps down on my shoulder.

“No,we’releaving.” Miranda motions to herself and Kyle. “Youstill have a free dessert to enjoy.”

“Excuse me?” I frown, unable to move due to Miranda’s iron fist on my shoulder. “Are you ditching me?”

“Yes,” Miranda nods. “And no.”

I shake my head at my friend who’s seldom this confusing. Kyle is putting an arm around Miranda’s waist, eager to be out of my presence.

“We don’t have to share an Uber or anything,” I say. “We can just—”

“Nope,” Miranda interrupts. “You’re staying. The rest of your night is paid for.”

I scrunch up my face. “What are you talking abou—?”

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