Page 3 of Forget Me Not

After I wandered around with my arms full of flowers, feeling like a lost lamb, a kindly security guard escorted me to the private suites that sat way above the ice. I glanced out at the skating area as we passed open doorways that led to the fan seating. The ice was shiny. A massive Jumbotron hung over the center with the time ticking off until the next game, which was tonight it seemed, against a team from Pittsburgh.

“Do you need help carting them up or do you have an assistant?” the man with the badge asked.

“My assistant is back at the shop,” I replied as we walked along, passing door after door. “How many private suites are there here?”

“There are three levels with about eighty private suites. This is the governor’s box,” he said as he waved a hand at a sturdy door with a small security panel beside it. He went on pointing out all the big names and corporations that had boxes to watch the pros play ice hockey. We paused outside a door. He turned to look at me. “This is the main banquet room. I’ll get you a pass and then we’ll round up some help for you.”

“Thanks. Someone from the team was supposed to meet me here but he must have been delayed. Prescott Williams his name is.” The older Black man nodded. “I told you that already didn’t I?”

“A few times. Which is why I called Prescott’s office to verify. He’s nursing a bad tooth so he won’t be here today. We’ll get you settled.” He scanned a keycard hanging from a lanyard around his neck. The door clicked and we walked into a stunning dining area with the Beavers rabid-looking mascot on the wall. I’d never seen such a bloodthirsty-looking beaver in all my life. And wouldn’t a beaver eat the hockey stick that the mascot was carrying? “The team and their mothers are to be here by eleven.”

I glanced at the clock over the bar area and felt a stab of panic. It was ten-thirty already. “We better get moving.”

The next thirty minutes were chaos. I had to work around the catering staff who were far too pokey for my liking. I ended up diving in and grabbing tablecloths to cover the round tables so that I could set up my centerpieces. I had just gotten the last one placed on a table by a wall of glass that looked out over Albany when people started filing in. Big, tall, strapping man-people with tiny, smiling mom-people on their arms. Everyone was dressy casual and I was wearing a wrinkledSpellborn Warshoodie that I’d been in for over twenty-four hours. My hands were scratched and scabbed from de-thorning roses as well as being dry and cracked from fishing Oasis bricks out of water then cutting them into shape. My beard probably had bits of pine and bark in it.

Thenhewalked in. The brunet cutie with the dimples and eyes—Bailey Rust. His mother, a rather tall and willowy woman with hair the same dark brown as her son’s was on his arm. Bailey was in pressed jeans that fit his bubble ass so well I bit down on my lower lip to keep from moaning. He wore a plain white dress shirt and navy blue suit jacket with those sinful dungarees. My gaze was locked on him as he laughed at something one of the other players had said to him. Then his green-brown eyes swept the room and landed right on me. He smiled. Not that polite kind of smile a person gives to someone they make contact with. It was a big smile. The kind that made those dimples even more dimply. Then he pointed at his chest. As if my greedy gaze needed him to direct my peepers to his chest. Was this man trying to kill me or—

Oh.

I nodded as recognition dawned. He meant my chest—theSpellborn Warsdragon logo on my hoodie. Did he play? I inclined my head. His smile widened. It was a good thing I had a wall behind me because he then settled his mother at a table with several other mom types and made his way to me. I gaped as he moved closer.

“Hey,” he said just as the scent of his aftershave reached me—sandalwood and something floral—a unique scent. Most men shied away from floral smells. “I love that hoodie. Did you find it online? It’s really retro.”

“I uhm, no I bought it new.” God above, his lips moved when he spoke.

No shit, Sherlock. He’s not communicating mentally like Professor X.

“Oh wow, so you’ve been playing for a long time then. I just got into it like last month over the holiday break. I love it, but man do I suck!” He laughed. I did as well only my snorty laugh was more nervous than lightly entertained. “My name is Bailey Rust.”

He offered me his hand. I wasn’t sure if staff were permitted to speak to the stars, many places did not want florists or caterers to mingle, but no one seemed to be freaking out so I took the hand offered to me and pumped it. He had a strong grip.

Probably from holding his stick. Wink. Nudge

“Hadley Burton. Florist. These are my flowers.”

“Wow, they’re pretty. My mother was going mental over the big one at her table.” I felt my ears warm at the praise. He tipped his head just a bit as his lips tweaked up at one side. My goodness, he was so pretty up close. And he smelled delicious.

And then the biggest awkward moment in the history of awkward moments fell on us. Several agonizing minutes ticked by as we exchanged fleeting glances.

Unsure of how to proceed I coughed up something about gaming, figuring that subject was safe.

“Maybe someday we can play with each other.” As soon as the words left my mouth I cringed. Oh my God, someone find this moron some water hemlock stat!Bailey’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

He laughed nervously then fled back to his mother after coughing up some flimsy excuse about shoes. I, being a moronic glutton for punishment, ogled his ass in those jeans for another minute then slunk out of the room before I embarrassed myself even more. It was time to go back to work, once I stopped at home to check on Legolas who was probably upset with me for not coming home last night. If I never saw a hockey player again it would be too soon.

***

By Wednesday morningI had more of less gotten over the embarrassment of the Bailey Rust catastrophe. Business was brisk and Midge was in rare form. So my mind was kept occupied with tasks that had nothing to do with hot hockey players.

Around eleven the bells over the front door chimed. I glanced up from double-checking the floral orders that Midge had accepted the morning I’d been inserting my foot into my mouth over at the arena. The world narrowed down to a small pinpoint that centered on Bailey Rust walking through the door. His gaze found mine instantly. It was hard to miss a big, beardy guy in a small flower shop. He smiled. It was a small, unsure sort of smile that made my morning bagel and cream cheese feel all toasty again.

Not knowing what to say, I stood there dumbstruck, my ears warming, staring at the stunning younger man in the thick woolen coat.

“Hi,” he called as he maneuvered around delicate display stands holding arrangements for Valentine’s Day. He bumped a small wooden table. The bowl holding the pink and white pirouette tulips rolled off the edge. He grabbed it smoothly, his cheeks now red as a rose. “Oh shit. Sorry. Dang. I just...” He placed the tulip garden back on the tiny table then shoved his hands into his pockets. “I need flowers.”

“You came to the right place.” I grinned at my own comment. Bailey stared at me. “Because there are flowers here.”

“Oh! Sure, yeah. That’s funny.” He arrived at the counter without further floral incident. I found myself starting at the wisps of dark hair curling around a dark gray toque. The strands looked soft, like his lips and smooth cheeks. I bet his whiskers were soft as kitten fur.

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