Play On - Michelle Smith Page 0,29

a hand at three.

I got out of class at two. But there’s no reason to tell them that.

As soon as the last customer is out the door with his date’s bouquet in hand at 5:59, I rush over and lock the door behind him. I watch him climb into his truck and drive off, probably on his way to pick up that date. The stool behind the counter scrapes against the floor. I turn right as Marisa plops onto it.

“Holy cow,” she says through a yawn, redoing her ponytail. “I thought you were full of crap when you told me how crazy it’d be. I’m pretty sure I waited on half the population of this town.”

That’s not hard when your town’s population is less than 5,000. I walk over to her, untying my apron along the way. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She rubs her hands over her face. “I’m tired,” she groans as I hang up my apron behind the counter. “And people can be psychotic. They’re just flowers, for cryin’ out loud. How can people get so mean over flowers? Flowers make you happy!”

I move next to her and lean against the counter. “A little hard work never killed anybody, you big baby.”

She stares across the room, slack-jawed. “See, I can’t even argue with you. I’m too sore. I’m seriously considering sleeping under this counter instead of driving home.”

The collar of her red shirt slipped down at some point, exposing freckled skin. I swallow hard. Her shoulders are right there, just begging to be rubbed. She said she was sore, right? Girls always go for that stuff.

Of course, she’d probably go for a restraining order if I grabbed her shoulders without asking first.

Momma clears her throat from the stairs. “I’m making the dinner run. Any requests?”

Marisa drops her head onto the counter. “FOOD,” she says, her voice muffled. “Lots and lots of food.”

Momma shakes her head. “I’ll be back in a bit. Y’all start cleaning up.” She stops in the middle of the display room, scanning the near-empty shop. “Actually, it looks like the customers already did that for you since the last time I came down.” She glances over at Marisa, who still has her head down, and then back to me. She raises an eyebrow.

What? I mouth.

She bites back a smile and opens the door, the bell jingling as she leaves.

With a sigh, Marisa raises her head, turning to me with droopy eyes. She glances down, her eyebrows furrowing as she grabs my hand from the counter. “Austin, your fingers look awful. They make Band-Aids for a reason, you know.”

My heart hammers as her fingers wrap around mine. This is a million times better than a shoulder rub. I follow her gaze to my hand. It does look bad, but it’s no worse than normal. I came by the shop last night to help put together a gazillion flower arrangements, which was hell on my skin. Coach will be pissed when he realizes I didn’t wear gloves like I’m supposed to.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I tell her. “Just wait until tomorrow, when you’ll be putting together all the corsages for the dance this weekend. Those are a pain in the ass.”

She scoffs, but her eyes are shining. “You’re really going to make me do all those by myself? You know there are, like, almost 200 orders, right?”

My lips curve slowly. I wish I could be here to help her. As much as I love being on that field, practice starting this week has been a double-edged sword. I’m not getting nearly enough Marisa time.

Good God, I’m pathetic.

“There’s no way Momma will let you do them alone. She’ll help. Trust me.”

She lets go of my hand. I fight a frown. Come back. “That sounds good. Are you…” Looking down at my now-lonely hand, she clears her throat. “Will you be going to the dance?”

I shrug a shoulder. “Dances are a lot more fun when you’ve got a date to spoil all night, which I don’t. Never thought to ask anyone.” And if I did ask someone, it’d be the girl in front of me.

She sighs and leans onto the counter, putting her chin in her hands. “Well, congratulations. You’ll hang on to your soul.”

Or not. I bite back a smile. “Not a dancer, I’m guessing?”

She shakes her head. “Never been a fan. Formal dances are the invention of Satan.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You have dances confused with Chem. That’s where Satan focused all his