My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,6

space. “Shit! Clean up, clean up! Quick!” She sounds a bit manic as she shoves cut leaves into a trash can and dumps my tumbler of water onto a nearby plant.

Whatever’s got her riled up, she still cares for the plants. She’s probably the most talented green thumb I’ve met since Edward, able to nurse plants back from near-death and make them bloom full and lush. That’s why I hired her, for her botany degree, but thankfully, she’s great with customers too and can handle watching the shop when Janey and I go to Aruba to work the wedding. But right now, she’s in a tailspin heading for a crash landing.

I step in front of her, placing my hands on her shoulders to stop her from swirling the drain. “Samantha. What’s happening?”

She blinks, coming out of her stupor, and swallows, looking back at the phone on the counter. “That was . . . that was one of Claire’s people. She’s coming. In ten minutes.”

I don’t get it. That’s totally expected. They’re supposed to be picking up the arrangements for tonight’s dinner, so why is Samantha freaking out?

“Okay. They’re picking up the flowers. We’re ready. They’re done.”

She shakes her head, her blonde hair swishing wildly. “No, no . . . she’s coming. Claire is coming!”

What she’s actually saying sinks in and my gut drops. “What?” I shriek. “Why?”

Don’t get me wrong, Claire is quite lovely, down to earth even, and she was perfectly kind the few times I met her in person to get approvals for the floral plan, but there’s no reason for her to be coming to a simple pick-up mere hours before a dinner where she’ll be the guest of honor and hostess with the mostest.

She should be doing a Get Ready With Me video for her followers or a meditation photo shoot with the sunset. Not picking up flowers like a courier or personal assistant.

“I don’t know,” Samantha says, answering the questions I already forgot I asked. “It was one of her people on the phone. An assistant, I guess? She said Claire is coming, in person, and has an update on the wedding that she wants to deliver in person.” She blinks and then needlessly says one more time, “In. Person. Abi. Claire Johnson is coming here.”

I guess Samantha is more of a fan that I realized.

“No autograph hounding. You hear me? We’ll behave like she’s any other customer.” My words have the force of an order, and she throws me a poorly formed salute. “Good. Now clean up!”

Despite my words, I start scurrying around frantically too. Samantha and Janey follow suit, clearing off tables, gently tossing loose flowers into the buckets in the cooler, and shoving the leftover donuts from this morning into the trash. At least it smells amazing in here. No fake air fresheners needed. We’ve got all-natural floral scents wafting around and blending beautifully.

“Go watch out in the front and give us a warning when they get here,” I tell Samantha when I realize she’s hyperventilating.

She runs to the window, peeking out but ducking down to the side so she’s not seen, as though she’s some secret spy on a stakeout mission. I roll my eyes, huffing out a laugh at her antics because if I don’t laugh, I might go a little cuckoo too.

Janey and I meet eyes. “We’ve got this,” she says with firmness.

“We do,” I say just as solidly.

Neither of us believes it. This is not the norm. Celebrity customers don’t come in like this, unscheduled and with last-minute updates.

Fuck, I hope I’m not getting fired before I even get to show her the work I’ve done. I should’ve done the damn crystals on that bouquet. But it’s too late.

“Ca-caw, ca-caw,” Samantha screeches.

“What the hell is that?” I bark.

“That’s the secret sign,” she explains. “She really does drive a pink glitter Escalade! They’re parking right now.”

Shit.

I look down at myself. The shop might be looking better, but I’m a mess. I quickly pull my ponytail holder out and shake my head, sending my thick, dark hair tumbling down my back, swipe under my eyes to make sure yesterday’s mascara hasn’t run down into my undereye bags, and smooth my water-spotted T-shirt. That’s as good as it can get right now, so hopefully, Claire will see that I’m putting my everything into making her flowers beautiful, even if it means I look like an advertisement for college-broke, don’t-give-a-fuck chic.

A man in a black suit rushes out from the driver’s seat