white shirt from this morning.
Just do something besides standing here like a moron.
I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear with a shaky hand and force out three simple words. “H-how are you?”
“I guess I’m doing pretty good for a Monday,” he responds, and that smile turns soft on his lips. “Are you new here?”
“New here?” I repeat his words, and he nods.
“I’ve known the Willis family for a long time. Did you just start working for them?”
He’s known the Willis family? Just start working for them?
“I come in here every month or so,” he adds with a smirk that quite literally could drop panties. “It’s possible I missed you, but I’m pretty sure I’d remember seeing you here.”
Instantly, my underwear stops dissolving, and my pride takes a hike instead.
Milo Ives, the star of all of my teenage fantasies, has no idea who I am.
My pits are sweating so hard they’re testing the strength of my deodorant while I try to come up with the perfect thing to say to his strong-jawed, plush-lipped face, and He. Doesn’t. Even. Remember. Me.
Oh my God.
“I…uh…just started working here two weeks ago,” I push out impulsively, and I have to clear the awkward cobwebs that have developed inside my throat.
Seriously, Maybe? Instead of righting this awkward situation and saying, “Hey, Milo. It’s Maybe, Evan’s sister. Remember?”, you’re just going to go with the whole “we don’t know each other” vibe?!
“You’ll love it here,” he says, and genuine affection highlights the deep, raspy tones of his too-sexy voice. “The Willises are good people.”
Yeah. Sigh. I know.
“Uh-huh.”
Path of least resistance solidified, it becomes apparent Willises can be idiots too.
“Well, I just need to put in an order for a bouquet.” Too busy berating myself in my head, I just stare at him, and after the silence stretches on for ten seconds too long, he evidently feels the pressure to add, “It’s for my mom’s birthday next week…”
“Oh…oh…okay… You want to order something…”
“Yes. I would like to order something. Well, flowers, to be specific.” He grins. “The order will be under Milo Ives. I should already have a profile in the system.”
Yeah, ha. I nod. I’m painfully aware of your name.
It takes a good thirty seconds for me to realize this is the part where I use the computer to take his order, and after fumbling with the mouse and the keyboard like some kind of technology reject for an additional thirty seconds, I’ve officially done my part in giving millennials a bad name. Eventually, though, somehow, some-magical-way, I manage to pull up the order screen.
“Do you have any recommendations?” he asks, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion.
“Recommendations?”
“For a birthday bouquet.”
Oh, right. The whole reason he’s here. Ha. Ha-ha-ha. My God, someone help me.
“Uh…well…we…uh… We have a white lily bouquet that a lot of people love…”
“Does that white lily bouquet also encourage forgiveness from a mother to her son because he often forgets to call and check in with her?”
He’s being all teasing and joking and charming, but I’m still too damn busy trying to recover from the initial shock of his presence and apparent amnesia of my existence to speak my given language effectively.
Bruce was right. It’s a good thing I spent all that money to major in books.
“Well…” I shrug and force a smile to my face that probably looks like I’m suffering from an ugly bout of constipation. “I guess it’s worth a shot, huh?”
“Definitely worth a shot.” He chuckles, and I swear to God, his laugh vibrates all the way from his throat, across the counter, and hits me like a bullet, square in the chest.
It’s so unfair. Your childhood crush isn’t supposed to get more handsome. He’s supposed to grow a beer gut and get wrinkles and just…not look like this.
I, on the other hand, am apparently too bland to even trigger a memory.
Thankfully, I manage to place his order without making the computer explode, and once the delivery is set and scheduled, I give him the cost. “The total is $52.30, and the bouquet will be delivered to your mom’s Florida address next Monday.”
“Perfect,” Milo responds with a soft smile as he pulls his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers. “So, are you new to the area or just the shop?”
“Uh…yeah…sort of… I just moved to Chelsea.”
He hands me his credit card—a shiny, black, rich-person’s credit card.
And, from what I know of Milo, he is a rich person. A billion-dollar kind of rich