Wallflower (Whittaker Floral #2)

8. Hannah

8

HANNAH

E lizabeth had gone up to the room to get the bride set up with her bouquet, and I was nearly done with the arrangements. All I had left was to attach the last of the orchids, which should be easy. I hadn’t done wedding set-up before, but these dripping, flowing arrangements were my favorite kind, and putting them together was very zen for me.

When I started at Whittaker, I’d been in school studying environmental science. I'd finished my degree four years ago, but I enjoyed the meditative quality of floristry, and even after I’d graduated I’d never sought out a career in my field. There was a joy that came with making beautiful things, and Elizabeth was able to pay me enough to make it something I could do full time. Still, I understood this wedding was a big deal—Elizabeth had never asked me to accompany her before.

Before our friend Drea had moved, she’d been Elizabeth’s assistant and Matty and Elizabeth’s go-to for all wedding set-up. Once Drea left, Elizabeth allowed me to move up front and act as her assistant, but it was always Adelaide or Matty who went to set-up weddings. Even if I hadn’t overheard Matty and Elizabeth talking, I would’ve known I wasn’t chic enough to do wedding set-up. Matty and Elizabeth were successful in large part because of the force of their personalities. They captured the attention of anyone in a room, and our wealthy clientele liked that. I was made to blend—wholly forgettable to the rich and famous—and I was okay with that.

Or I had been okay with that.

But then Elizabeth invited me to work this wedding, and now I needed to do well. I slid an orchid into its spot. If I couldn’t be memorable, at the very least my work would be, and she would know I was an asset not only worth keeping in her company, but eventually promoting.

And still, despite knowing this—knowing today was the ultimate test and would likely determine my future with Whittaker Floral—I found myself distracted. No matter how hard I tried to focus, my mind kept wandering back to Declan Andrews, and thinking about Declan Andrews only reminded me how incompetent and embarrassed I felt when he was around. I glanced around the ballroom, but I was alone.

I was equal parts amazed and appalled by the easy way he’d sat down next to me today. Who did that, and what did it say about him? Should his confidence impress me or was it an indicator of his spoiled, entitled upbringing?

But I hadn’t had time to consider the options, because this time I wasn’t going to embarrass myself—I’d instantly said hello. I’d greeted him, been polite, said the exact words Elizabeth said to clients all the time. And yet I’d done it wrong. And his jest, while probably not intended to sting, had been an instant reminder that Matty could dress me up and put me in presentable shoes, but I would never have the easy charm Drea had—I would never be able to step into a bigger role at Whittaker Floral.

“How long have you been a florist?” he had asked.

I bit my lip, focusing hard on the flowers, not daring to look up at the man and have him see the the emotion on my face. “I’m not a florist, really, Elizabeth is,” I replied, “but I’ve worked for her since college. It’s been almost six years now.”

He chuckled softly, and somehow the sound was both lovely and devastating, the way I felt when I heard a violin solo. “Isn’t a florist someone who works with flowers?” Declan asked. “Because you definitely work with flowers,”

I swallowed hard. “I’m Elizabeth’s assistant,” I repeated, and then, needing to get the conversation off me, I added, “What do you do?”

He answered, something long-winding about communications and press releases, and I nodded as I worked until he said, “Did you cut your hair?”

I shouldn’t have cared if he liked or hated it, but somehow I did, and I looked up to meet his gaze. His eyes were a spectacular green, bright as dianthus with flecks of a darker, eucalyptus color around his pupil, and for a single second I wanted to fall into them, drown in them. I licked my lips and said,“I did.”

“I like it,” he said simply, his lips turning up at one corner.

I felt a hot blush rush up my neck toward my cheeks and I frowned in embarrassment, looking back down at my arrangement quickly. “Shouldn’t you be with the groom?” I asked.

“Possibly…I don’t know,” he replied, and then he fell into silence.

The silence was not uncomfortable, a fact which, in itself, worried me. He sat next to me, quiet and contemplative, not interrupting me and not boredly scanning through his phone. Instead, he watched me work, intermittently looking up at the wedding set-up going on around us. And though I liked the silence, I suddenly longed for more conversation. I looked up to say more, but his eyes were across the banquet hall. I followed his gaze furtively, landing on none other than Caitlyn, the wedding photographer. We’d been introduced by Elizabeth earlier and while Elizabeth had smiled and talked about “Caitlyn’s stunning work,” the stiffness of Elizabeth’s politeness left no question to anyone who knew her—she didn’t like the photographer. That didn’t mean I’d write Caitlyn off completely, but odds were good if Matty or Elizabeth didn’t like someone, they’d earned the ire.

I looked back down at my work, mostly done now, but not wanting to make eye-contact with Declan Andrews. There was something about his green eyes that felt like they could see into me, and the last thing I wanted was him seeing the truth—for a few seconds, I thought he might actually be interested in me . Stupid right? I felt the heat on my cheeks. Men like Declan may toss a careless compliment my way, but it was always beauties like Caitlyn they were really after.

“What kind of flowers are those?” he asked, catching me off-guard.

I looked up, wide-eyed. “Which?”

“The…big ones,” he said, his words sounding more like a question. He’d been sitting, his arms resting atop his bent knees, but he stood as he gestured toward the arrangement, clearly pointing at a Renaissance rose. I scrolled back through our limited conversations, trying to remember if I’d mentioned the Renaissance rose as my favorite. Because whatever job this guy did for whatever MLB stood for, his real skill was probably remembering details and using them to impress women later. I’d met men like that before. You couldn’t trust them.

“Renaissance roses,” I answered cautiously, considering calling him out, but I didn’t.

“They’re beautiful.”

And even though I knew Declan Andrews was probably a horrible playboy, I softened a little, because Renaissance roses were beautiful. I thought it every time I worked with them, and who was I to say Declan wasn’t having a similar reaction to their spectacular, full bloom? “Aren’t they? They’re my favorites.”

“You think that mug of yours can do some quick test shots for me?" It was Caitlyn’s voice, smooth and low and somehow naturally sexy—easy to recognize though I’d only met her the once. When we’d been introduced, I’d wondered if she sang in her spare time.

“Sorry, I have to get back upstairs soon,” Declan replied, and I didn’t know if that was code amongst the beautiful, like perhaps they both knew it was a euphemism for you should join me upstairs. At any rate, it was an excellent reminder that guys like Declan Andrews were always tools. Gorgeous eyes and an appreciation for flowers couldn’t change that. “I’m sure you’ll find someone else to help you out,” he added, which, at the very least, seemed to cancel out my theory they might be secretly meeting up. Unless saying that was a purposeful part of the ruse. Who even knew anymore?

“I’m almost done here, if you want to go help,” I muttered.

He stepped close, closer—into my personal space but I found I didn’t mind it. “I know you’re not a florist, but you’re certainly an artist, because this,” he paused long enough to gesture toward the arrangement, “is breathtakingly beautiful, and you?—”

Was I holding my breath? Possibly. I certainly wasn’t breathing, waiting for whatever words came next.

“Well, it was lovely to see you again,” he said finally. “Thanks for letting me hang out. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I need to tend to a bowtie upstairs.”

I didn’t watch him walk away, didn’t look up to see if Caitlyn would follow, I just ducked my face into the arrangements and tried to pretend those words hadn’t affected me.

But they had.

If the man had told me I was beautiful, gorgeous, exquisite—a particularly awkward compliment I’d once received on a first and last date—I would’ve written him off.

But he hadn’t.

Declan Andrews had complimented my work. He’d looked at this arrangement—a piece I’d poured myself into—and declared it breathtakingly beautiful.

Did he know how much that meant to me? Could he guess I dreamed up new designs when I closed my eyes at night, and that I ached to know someone found them stunning? When I brought Elizabeth’s ideas to life they filled me with joy and awe and pride, and I would never in a million years ask for validation, but when it came?—

Well, I couldn’t help the excited helium balloon that filled my chest.

Sometimes I fantasized about Elizabeth gushing over my work, but I knew that was pure fantasy. Elizabeth was kind beyond measure, but she did not gush . She gave polite smiles, told me the work was good, and never questioned the minor changes I made. I knew that should be enough—if Elizabeth didn’t like the final product she’d never tolerate me editing her sketches.

But I wanted more .

And I hated that the more I’d been dreaming of came from Declan Andrews instead of my mentor. But it had. He’d said the arrangements had been breathtakingly beautiful, and I’d looked at him—really looked at him—trying to decide if he was serious or just making a stupid joke at my expense. I’d waited years to get that sort of compliment from Elizabeth, and it had come from him instead. And dammit, but I’d liked it anyway.

Done with a half hour to spare, I stood up and tucked my tools in the pocket of the small black waist apron I was wearing today.Declan wasn’t wrong, the arrangement I’d just finished was positively breathtaking, and I stood back to evaluate, turning my head to and fro as I inspected from various angles.

“You’re still here.”

I jumped, the words pulling me from my thoughts, and spun to find Declan just behind me. Next to him was the boy who’d played video games during the meeting last weekend, and it occurred to me how very similar they looked. Was it possible Declan had a teenage son? “I’m done now,” I said, bending to grab the empty boxes at my feet.

“Hannah, this is my nephew, Max. Max, this is Hannah. She’s the florist’s assistant.” He emphasized each syllable of the words “ florist’s assistant.” I found myself locked in on those damned eyes again, and Declan’s gaze never wavered. In my periphery, I saw Max shrug as he walked farther down the aisle past us.

“If you’re looking for Caitlyn, she’s upstairs with the bride,” I said, though he was with his nephew and clearly wasn’t attempting a hookup. Still, the bitter words seemed to pop out on their own.

“Who’s Caitlyn?” Declan asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“She’s the photographer.”

His face pinched in distaste, but he was still smiling crookedly. It was an appealing smile, but I was determined not to be swayed by it. “I hadn’t heard her name, and I’m certainly not looking for her. In fact, I’ll probably spend half the evening deftly avoiding her.” His eyebrows twitched, and, again, I hated myself for liking it so much. “Whatever she’s looking for tonight, it’s not what I’m looking for.”

Bullshit . “I thought that was exactly what best men were looking for at a wedding,” I replied dryly.

He shrugged good-naturedly, but his reply was equally dry. “Well, you’ve probably not been the best man very many times.” He looked away and I followed his gaze toward his nephew. “And anyway, I’m not the best man at this wedding.” I didn’t know Declan well—I didn’t know Declan at all—but I could tell this bothered him. “I, Declan Andrews, am the co-best man, meaning my signature is needed on the wedding license and…not much else.” He shrugged, turning back to look at me once more.

“Sorry, I just assumed…” I began, but didn’t have an ending.

His shoulder bounced, the tiniest little twitch. “Me too, actually, but I get it.” He glanced back at Max, who was intently practicing walking to his spot. “The kid’s pretty great, anyway, so it’s good.”

There was one dangerous second where I found myself empathizing with Declan Andrews, but then Elizabeth joined us.She had a funny expression on her face I didn’t know how to read, but it made my heart thunder. She’d finally brought me with to a set-up and I’d deviated from her sketches.

“I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Andrews. Is your nephew with you? You both still need your boutonnières.” She turned to me for a moment, and I held my breath. Elizabeth would never scold me in front of a client, but if she mentioned my changes, it would be a sure sign she didn’t approve. “Hannah, I noticed the orchids have deviated from our sketch—” There it was, and I thought I might vomit, right on top of Declan’s fancy shoes. It wouldn’t matter anyway, because Elizabeth was obviously never bringing me out again. “But your changes are perfect. Your eye is exceptional, dear. Keep up the good work.” I still wasn’t breathing. Those were the kind of words I’d only dreamed of—not exactly gushing, but as close as Elizabeth was ever going to get. It was exhilarating and embarrassing all at once. I blushed—discomfort curling my stomach—and tightened my grip on my tool bag, ready to make a run for the van.Undeterred, Elizabeth continued. “Now, if you’ll please get these gentlemen set up with their boutonnières, we’ll be heading out. I’m going to go to the van and call Adelaide to check on the Dothling wedding. Are we set here?”

My back stiffened. There would be no getting away from Declan Andrews, not yet. “We’re good.I’ll get them set up and I’ll be out,” I agreed.

She smiled warmly. “No rush.” Then she handed me the box in which the final two boutonnières were pillowed on a bed of Spanish moss, picked up the empty boxes sitting next to me, and walked away. I stood stock-still, holding the boutonnière box, watching Elizabeth’s back as she left the hotel. Now I just needed to do this last bit of work and get out of there.

I placed the box on a nearby chair and picked up a boutonnière, turning to Declan. “I’m going to put this right here on your lapel,” I explained, moving in close—too close. Stepping into his bubble nearly took my breath away. He smelled faintly of a cologne, and I wanted to lean closer to inhale his skin. I probably would’ve, too, if not for the fact that I seemed to have frozen with my fingers on the lapel of his black suit coat.

“Should I?” he asked hesitantly when I didn’t move, reaching for the boutonnière where it was clasped in my right hand. His fingers closed around mine. It was only an instant—a single moment before I jolted back to life and shook my head—but it was electric, like I could feel his touch all the way into my veins. “No, I’ll do it,” I rushed to say, then schooled my voice, adding, “If you do it yourself it’ll be askew.”

There was no way this shitshow was what Elizabeth expected when she invited me to do wedding set-up. I tried to play off my awkward nature with a forced smile as I looked up into his eyes—a clear mistake, because I’d already established the damn things were mesmerizing. I could still feel his touch, and I swallowed hard as I looked back down to his lapel, wishing I could either put the distance back between us or crush myself to him. The thought made me blush, but I doubted he could see since I was looking down as I reached into his coat. His chest was pleasantly warm and firm as my knuckles brushed over it, and I felt a tingling rush of desire shoot through my limbs.

It was a wonder I didn’t stab myself attaching the flower, but I slipped the pin through deftly, then carefully straightened the pink Renaissance rose to make sure it was perfect.

All I had to do was take a step back, slap the other flower onto the kid, and get the hell out of Dodge, but I didn’t do that. Instead, rather without thinking, I placed the flat of my hand on his sternum as I declared, “All set.” And although his chest was warm and firm and I could feel the beat of his heart under my palm, I knew this was not acceptable. I just didn’t know how to stop doing it without making it weird.

My arm stiffened, but before I could pull away, I was trapped—my hand caged under his, held tightly to his chest. The little bolt of electricity that had resulted from our fleeting touch was back—bigger, stronger—and it was a completely new feeling for me. I looked at my hand under his and then back up into his eyes.

He smiled in a way that was everything I thought I hated but maybe I liked and now apparently desired rolled into one. It was self-satisfied and experienced. It was also sexy and charming and made me feel good even though it shouldn’t. “Thank you,” he said. He paused for a beat, not breaking eye contact with me, not letting go, then continued, “Max?” His fingers curled around mine, one brief moment of holding hands and then he let go with a single squeeze, and I wanted to hold on, to pull him closer and kiss that stupid smile off his face.

And while I’d gone on plenty of dates, these were feelings I was completely unfamiliar with. They felt out of control and a little exciting. I didn’t know what to think.

“Hannah needs to put this flower on you. We’re starting soon,” Declan said, drawing Max near and taking a step back, until only the boy stood in front of me.

I attached the second boutonnière quickly and dropped my hands, letting them clap noisily against my sides. “All done here. It was nice to meet you all,” I said hurriedly, giving a polite nod to boy and man in turn.

“Thank you, Hannah. I truly hope our paths cross again.”

I didn’t.

I swallowed hard, turning without another word and heading back to the van. It didn’t matter if I’d felt an electric connection to the man that could power a city block. With his good looks he probably made every woman he met light up. I needed to focus on flowers. Elizabeth had offered me a new opportunity, and Declan was a distraction I couldn’t afford.