A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (27)

All right, then. I guess you’re mine now. I can’t save Sonny, but maybe I can save you, he thought with glum resignation. But I still hate dogs.

The band was changing into tuxedos, and the chorus line was pounding out one final rehearsal. Breeze noticed a lead dancer suddenly grab her ankle and limp off the floor. Within seconds, an understudy ran out from the wings, taking her place.

His eyes followed her. The dog perked up his ears.

The understudy was not the best dancer. Nor was she the prettiest. But she was attacking the choreography like she had a point to prove and wrongs to right. She was on fire and impossible to ignore. Breeze glanced around the room; everyone’s eyes were on her.

But her eyes fell on him. Her gaze bore into the hollow left by Sonny.

After rehearsal, the new dancer lingered behind. She took her time walking off the dance floor, going out of her way to pass Breeze at the bar. Pausing, she plucked a flower from a bouquet. Bringing the jasmine just under her nose, she inhaled luxuriously, staring at Breeze with unadulterated hunger. Carelessly, she dropped the flower and kept walking, its tender petals smashed under her heels.

The gesture was dismissive, ruthless—destroying such delicate beauty like that.

Her brand of destruction was exactly what Breeze needed.





CHAPTER 7


TRAGIC OR ROMANTIC?


February 5, 2024

We’re not going to talk about this?” asked Tuesday, through a yawn.

It was five o’clock on Monday morning. Ricki had been ignoring her calls since the stakeout. So, in an act of desperation, Tuesday joined her on her daily trip to the Flower District, the colorful block of floral markets on Twenty-Eighth Street in Chelsea. They imported flowers from farms all over the world—the Netherlands, Ecuador, Colombia—and opened early for retailers to have their choice of blooms before the general shopping rush.

“No, we’re not talking about it,” said Ricki, with curt finality, as she made her way through the stalls, a basket dangling from her forearm.

“But you and that dude? Ricki, that was not a stranger vibe. You recognized each other! Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re right. I told you, I saw him in that community garden the other day.”

“No, I mean, it looked like you knew knew each other. In a deeper way. Like, from your past. Prom? Ex-fiancé? Brother-in-law that you accidentally slept with after one too many spiked eggnogs at Christmas?”

“You haven’t seen my brothers-in-law.”

Ricki stopped at a bush of begonias, kneeling down to assess the color. Oh, this used to thrill her! She usually zoomed out of bed before dawn, excited to take in the Technicolor spectacle of blooms and greenery. Watching seasoned Manhattan florists shop the stock, dreaming up design trends that would soon influence everything from textile prints to wedding style, was such an education.

Flower District shopping was one of her favorite parts of being a florist. Not today, though.

Wilde Things had flatlined. Since her expensive, exquisitely curated creations just weren’t moving, she’d taken to buying discounted stock, which translated to generic bouquets with only about eight hours of life left in them. She hoped that with Valentine’s Day around the corner, maybe the arrangements would sell by default—even though she hated toning down her aesthetic to be palatable.

Ricki had known that running a business would be hard. God knew she’d been forced to listen to enough of her dad’s TED Talks to know that entrepreneurship was about trying new things, failing, innovating, and trying again. But what if she just kept failing?

And was she failing because her focus was… elsewhere?

It was a strong possibility. She had tried, truly, but she couldn’t banish Garden Gentleman—now Mysterious Benefactor—from her head. It had to mean something that they were the same person. Was she being stalked? Or was she just being a chaotic Gemini? No, Tuesday was right—something was there.

Historically, Ricki wasn’t satisfied with unanswered questions, especially as she’d been raised in a house where nothing was questioned, ever. Ricki’s world had been defined before she came into it, and her job was to toe the line.

“Your daddy is our leader,” Carole had announced over breakfast when Ricki was five years old. “What he says goes.”

“Why?”

“Men always lead. That’s how the world works.”

“But you’re a big deal, too, right? You’re an interior decorator! Why’s Daddy the leader just ’cause he’s a man? Why is the stuff he’s good at more special than what you’re good at?”

“Because Eve ate the apple.”

“What if I want to be the boss?”

“You’ll run franchises one day, like your sisters. But Daddy’ll always be the big boss.”

“Corey Jacobs said Daddy’s a… a… ‘Republican race traitor.’ Is that bad?”

“Lord. You like the pool at the country club, don’t you?”

“I love it!”

“Then hush. Your only job in this world is to follow my directions. Where to go to school, what clubs to join, who to marry. Do what I say, and you’ll always be the prettiest, smartest, most important girl in the room. Like your sisters. They were perfect angels who never caused one bit of trouble. And look how they turned out.”