Page 154 of Down Bad

She chooses three complements, instead.

And buys a set for Bobby and Jimmy too, because why not.

Then Angela stops in wanting some flowers for her mom—and ends up throwing so many extra little things into her order that she walks out paying four times as much as she’d planned to. Then I get a call from Jill at the vet wondering if Samuel has dropped in yet for the flowers they plan to fill their “puppy playroom” with (whatever that is) because she wants to also get something for her little sister who’s coming into town this weekend. Moments later, Sandra and Paul Buckley (Samuel’s parents) drop in to say hi, act surprised at how lovely the shop looks as it has been a while, then snatch up an arrangement for some unspecified occasion.

In the afternoon, the rest of the storm rushes in.

Someone shows up wanting flowers for an anniversary. Then another wants a sympathy arrangement. Then comes a lady from church urgently needing something for her daughter.

Then another.

And another.

My store is crowded and I’m rushing around sweating my ass off, all while fielding the phone that’s blowing up with order after order from every last member of Lottie’s book club.

That’s when Cash drops in, likely expecting to hang out.

And is frozen at the door by the sea of faces, hair, and way too much perfume causing the walls of the shop to swell outward.

“Help!” my eyes scream without words.

Cash snaps out of it and hops over the counter (literally) to start ringing people up, still wearing his backpack.

Every face is friendly. Everyone adores whatever I suggest. I barely get a word out before the ladies start upselling themselves, grabbing every last thing.

Seriously.

Did the town hold a meeting?

Were decisions made?

Is this Nadine Strong’s madness? Lottie’s doing? Cash’s power with Stella being a former member—and I’m starting to presume head—of the Spruce High PTA?

“Was there something in the paper?” I finally have the balls to ask Nancy Harding, who never minces words with me. “Is it Noah? Did he write up and publish an article?”

While literally hugging a potted fern to her chest, she twists her eyes onto me. “Just ‘cause my grandson’s dating him doesn’t mean I know everything going on in that young man’s head.” She winks at me, as if I’m expected to know what that means, then takes herself to the counter for Cash to ring her up.

It’s more than suspicious.

It’s obvious.

Everyone has their excuse for why their purchase definitely has nothing to do with helping out my business.

One woman needs centerpieces for an event six months away.

Another buys flowers for her dining room table because: “I’ve decided I deserve them.”

Marybeth from the clinic insists they will need weekly flower arrangements for the office because: “Ain’t goin’ to the doctor just dreary enough?”

At one point, I rush behind the counter to grab more cards to replace a stack in the front I just ran out of, and Cash hisses at me, “I think we’re under attack, Mr. C!”

I don’t know how to handle this.

How to accept this.

I should be grateful, but I’m bombarded with the instinct to apologize to every last person who comes in.

I didn’t want the town’s charity.