Rushing Amy: A Love and Football Novel (10 page)

“He’s asked me out, but we’re not dating.”

“You told him no? Everyone wants to go out with him,” she insisted. “Why?”

Maybe Amy could stall. “Samantha, what grade are you in?”

“Ninth. How come?”

Amy did some quick math: She was fourteen or so. “Just wondering.”

“How old are you?”

Amy considered notifying Samantha that asking a woman her age wasn’t the best policy, and realized it was a waste of breath. “Thirty-five. I’ll be thirty-six soon.”

“So, what’s wrong with Matt?” Despite Samantha’s efforts to affect worldliness and even a tiny bit of boredom, Amy saw hurt in her eyes. She thought her dad was being insulted. It was enough to melt the cold, cold heart of a non-dater. Almost.

Amy’s lobby wasn’t huge, but there was enough room for a small round metal table and a couple of chairs. Her clients used the table to look through books of flower arrangements. Today, it was just right for a brief visit with Matt’s daughter.

She indicated the table with a nod. “Let’s sit down for a minute. Would you like some bottled water or a soda?”

“I’d like some diet pop, please,” Samantha said.

Amy pulled two Diet Cokes out of the flower cooler and they sat down. She didn’t typically spend much time with teenagers, especially the teenage daughter of a guy she’d turned down multiple times now. It was uncomfortable. She also mused on how a fourteen-year-old had managed to score a Louis Vuitton satchel bag.

A few moments passed while Samantha busied herself with opening the can and taking a sip. Amy noted the chipped blue nail polish she wore. Samantha also left a smear of lip gloss on the can.

“Hey, Samantha, got a question for you,” Amy said as casually as she could manage. “Does your mom know you’re here?”

“I called her earlier and said I was going to drop by. The bus stops right at the corner. I can get one home, so it’s no big deal.” She took another sip of soda. “It’s a good thing Matt’s not here right now. He’d be pissed off about the pop. He doesn’t like it.”

Amy wondered idly if she should say something about inappropriate language. That was definitely her parents’ problem.

“Why not?”

“He’s obsessed with healthy stuff. It’s boring.” Samantha rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh. “At least he lets me have pizza once in a while.” She leaned over the table. “He likes tofu, and this nasty green juice he gets at the smoothie place.”

“I’m sorry,” Amy deadpanned.

“It’s awful. He tries to get me to eat that stuff, too. My grandma says that Matt thinks if he eats the healthy stuff, he’ll live forever, but she thinks it’ll just feel like it.”

Amy couldn’t control her snort. She tried to cover it up by taking another sip out of her pop can. Samantha looked around the shop. “Have you always been a florist?”

“No. I used to be an accountant.”

“Why did you change?”

She’d been dying inside, but she knew Samantha would not understand that answer.

“I was bored and wanted something different. This is a lot more fun.” Amy fiddled with a pen on the table. “What would you like to be when you’re older?”

“I want to be a fashion designer. My mom says that it’s hard work and I’m going to have to go to college first, but I really want to do it.” Samantha glanced at the LV satchel resting on the table. “That’s my mom’s old handbag,” she explained. “Matt said that if I didn’t wreck it or lose it, we could talk about a designer handbag when I’m sixteen.”

“Old” or not, Amy would be more than happy to take it off her hands. She dragged her eyes off the handbag.

“Most sixteen-year-olds would ask for a car.”

“I want a car, but I’d have to pay for my own gas and insurance.” Samantha wrinkled her nose. “That’s not so bad, but if I get a job, I can’t do sports, and I really like sports. Plus, if I don’t keep my grades up, the insurance is a lot more money, and Mom and Matt won’t be happy with me.” She squeezed the sides of her pop can. “Did you have a car when you were sixteen?”

“My sister Emily and I shared a car.”

The look on Samantha’s face was wistful. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters, so I won’t have to share.” She swirled the soda can in her fingers, and blurted out, “Do you want to have kids?”

“Someday.”

Samantha’s smile was impish. “My dad wants to have more kids.” Amy wondered if Samantha was attempting to recruit her to be Matt’s baby mama. There were lots of other women who would volunteer for the job in a heartbeat.

“Uh, that’s nice.” If she felt awkward before, now she wondered if she should hide somewhere till Samantha gave up and went home. Amy shook her head so hard she felt something rattle. “Samantha, your dad and I can’t be in a room together for more than a few minutes, or we argue with each other.”

“Why do you fight with him?”

“He’s the most unreasonable man in the world.”

Samantha barely kept from spewing a mouthful of soda all over Amy as she tried to stifle her laughter. She clapped one hand over her mouth, swallowed, and wiped away a stray tear with her fingers.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah.” Samantha grabbed a tissue from the box Amy had on the table and wiped her nose. “He doesn’t like it when anyone disagrees with him,” she admitted. “He says that he’s just watching out for me. So he tries to tell you what to do, too?”

Amy heaved a sigh. “All the time.”

“I think he likes you,” Samantha observed. “He says that he wouldn’t bug me so much if he didn’t love me.”

Amy’s stomach churned. She wasn’t even going to let herself think about the reasons behind Matt’s behavior toward her.

She let out a long breath. “I think he enjoys it.”

“Maybe you could have dinner or something and agree that you wouldn’t argue,” Samantha said.

Amy realized she was getting fixed up by a fourteen-year-old. Then again, Samantha had paid her a pretty high compliment: She was obviously at the shop to check Amy out, and for some unknown reason, she’d passed Matt’s daughter’s inspection.

Amy took another swallow of soda and leaned back in her chair. “So, what’s your mom like?”

Samantha’s face lit up. “She’s great. She and Matt got married when she was still pretty young, so she likes the music I do, she lets me wear her clothes, that kind of stuff. We get along really well. She streaked my hair. Matt freaked out when he saw it.” Samantha leaned forward and put one elbow on the table as she spoke. “He said if he hears one more word about getting my eyebrow pierced—”

Amy was saved from additional discussions about dating and babies when Samantha’s phone rang. “Just a moment,” she said, and she consulted the screen of a pink cell phone. “Hi, Mom.” Amy couldn’t make out what was said, but Samantha nodded. “Okay. I’m at Crazy Daisy. Do you want me to meet you there?” She listened for a few moments, and then she said, “I’ll use the crosswalk. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She used a finger on the touchscreen to end the call. “My mom wants me to meet her at Urban Outfitters, so I have to go.” She picked up her bag, and dropped the phone back into it.

Amy got to her feet. “Samantha, it was so nice to meet you. I’m glad you stopped by.”

“So, it’s okay with you if I drop by again?”

Maybe Samantha just wanted a free soda. Why else would she be visiting? At the same time, Amy had to admit Samantha appeared to be fourteen going on thirty-five. It was like talking with another adult, as long as Amy forgot about the strategies employed by a teenage girl who wanted her way.

“Of course it is. Anytime.”

“Cool!” Samantha exulted. “Thanks!” She threw her arms around Amy, who realized she and Samantha were the same height. Matt’s genetic material was obviously superior.

“Why don’t I walk outside with you and make sure you’re across the street?” Amy asked.

“I’m not a baby,” Samantha said.

“I know. I want to make sure—”

“You’re just like Matt,” but she started to laugh.

Amy stepped outside the shop to watch Samantha’s progress to the corner. Urban Outfitters was almost directly across the street and it was broad daylight, but she felt oddly protective of Matt’s daughter. The woman who’d taken the flowers at what must have been their home was waiting outside the store. She embraced Samantha, waved at Amy, and they went inside.

An hour and a half later, Amy was sweeping the floor in the workroom when the phone rang.

“Crazy Daisy,” she said.

She heard Matt’s voice. “So, you met my little princess, did you?”

“Excuse me?” Obviously Matt needed to update his glasses prescription. Amy had to smile, though: Her dad still called her the same thing.

“My daughter informed me that I should really consider dating you.”

“I told her it wouldn’t work—”

He interrupted her. “Why not, Amy? You won’t know until you try.”

“We argue all the time.”

“We’re not arguing now.”

“Yes, we are. I told you I—ooh!” She stomped her foot on the workroom floor. “I do
not
get you.”

She heard the laughter in his voice. “There’s one way to end this once and for all, you know.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
was even crazier, if it was possible. Estelle was out sick. Amy’s new delivery driver was stopped behind a wreck on 520, the floating bridge connecting downtown Seattle to the moneyed Eastside, and she had no idea when traffic might start moving again. In the meantime, the list of arrangements that needed to be made was epic. All she could possibly do was work as quickly as possible and hope her driver returned to the shop before closing. She was also crossing her fingers that the finicky flower cooler unit she’d purchased from a retiring florist before she opened her doors was not about to go tits up. It was making noises she’d never heard before.

“Sucks to be me,” she muttered to herself as a stray thorn she’d neglected to strip off a long-stemmed white rose left a long scratch on her forearm as she worked. An anonymous cubicle in a large corporate accounting firm was sounding better and better. The worst injury she’d had there was a particularly egregious paper cut.

Crazy Daisy was a minefield of work-related injuries. She’d slipped on spilled water, stabbed herself with wire, fallen over junk in the storeroom, burned herself with hot coffee . . . and that was just last week. The best part was trying to explain the resulting bumps and bruises to assorted friends and family. They all thought being a florist was a profession that did not require additional health insurance coverage and a physical therapist on retainer.

Shortly after lunchtime Amy had just stashed the last arrangement in the still-working cooler, wiped down the worktable, and poured herself a cup of coffee when she heard the bell over the front door jingle again. She bit back a groan. Even though she needed the business, she wanted five minutes to drink a cup of coffee in peace.

M
ATT STOOD AT
the front counter, holding the biggest bouquet of sweet peas she’d ever seen. Amy forgot the coffee.

“Hey, Amy.”

She came to a halt behind the front counter. “Hey, yourself.”

He was clumsy as he moved around the counter and laid the bouquet in her arms. To Amy’s amazement, the arrogant, blustering, take-no-prisoners Matt had been temporarily replaced by a shy, gentle suitor. He moved closer. She forgot to move away. She buried her nose in the bouquet, breathing in the heavenly scent.

“These are for you. Thanks for taking care of me. I appreciate it.”

“What? Why?” she blurted out, and then wished she hadn’t said a word. He took her cheek in his hand.

“I wondered if anyone brought you flowers lately.”

In that moment, she was undone, vulnerable, at his mercy. Her heart opened. She tried to string together anything even remotely self-possessed to say, but mostly, she wanted to cry. He’d managed to hit on the one gesture that would mean more to her than almost any other. After all, she sent flowers to other people. They didn’t send them to her.

“These are my favorite. How did you know?”

“You told me.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb.

She didn’t know what else to say, and she really didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t imagine where he’d managed to get them, especially since they were out of season, and cut sweet peas lasted only a day or so. Years of training finally kicked in, though, and she murmured something to the effect of, “Maybe I should put these in some water.”

Amy turned away from him, but then she turned back. He hadn’t moved. He watched her. She took a few steps toward him before she realized what she was doing. She reached up to brush a kiss across his cheek.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

His arms slipped around her. He laid his scratchy cheek on Amy’s as her arm slid around him in a hug. She could smell the flowers she still held, but even more, she could smell him: the warm, clean scent of his skin, the starch in his shirt and shampoo, the hint of aftershave. It also dawned on her that she had relaxed into his embrace.

“Amy,” he said into her ear. “There’s a card.”

“What does it say?”

She was obviously stunned stupid at this point. After all, she was exhausted. If Scott the driver did not materialize momentarily, she was going to have to call twenty-five customers to say their deliveries would be late. When she wasn’t freaking out about that, she kept trying to remember every reason why she’d believed dating Matt was one of the more stupid ideas in the history of the universe.

She couldn’t seem to pry herself away from him. He was warm. She listened to his heartbeat beneath the button-down shirt he wore. He held her close, but it wasn’t creepy. It was nice. He laid one hand over the stress ache in her lower back. Ahhh.

“You might want to take a look.” He watched as she pulled the small white envelope out of the profusion of flowers, ripped it open, and silently read, “Have dinner with me, Fifi. Matt.”

“And?” he asked.

She was in a daze. It didn’t even occur to her to argue with him. He brought her sweet peas! She couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten them. Plus, he remembered she loved them. He
remembered
.

Brian hadn’t even remembered her birthday, and she’d dated him for a year.