“Great,” Daisy replies, taking the forms from his hands, placing them on one of the waiting clipboards from the counter, and grabbing a pen to fill everything out. I follow her to the other side of the room as she takes a seat in a chair and starts writing. I shamelessly watch over her shoulder.
Daisy Marie Diaz. Twenty-nine years old. Birthday December 25.
“Christmas baby, huh?”
She laughs a little. “So the city of Vancouver tells me.”
The city of Vancouver tells her? Not her parents? Interesting.
Done with her information, she offers the clipboard to me, where I quickly scribble down my information. It’s nothing too thorough—just very basic information and a home address.
When I’m done, I get up and walk the clipboard back over to the counter, carefully checking the sheet to see which bouquet she’s selected.
Number 2A.
Big, bright Gerbera daisies all packed together in an overcrowded cluster. Very interesting. I really thought she’d go for one of the more refined sets of delicate whites and pinks, but then again, I’m finding that this woman never hesitates to surprise me.
Settling the clipboard onto the desk, I turn and head back in her direction, where she’s no longer sitting in the chairs in which I left her. Instead, she’s up and moving.
She waves frantic hands at her face, the crimson red wave of her anxiety cascading off her cheeks and down the line of her neck, and I step back as her red-tipped fingers swing out and almost hit me in the face.
“Okay. Okay,” she repeats to herself, spinning in the world’s tiniest circle. “Everything is fine. This is no big deal. People do crazy things like this all the time for far less rational reasons, and I’m just…taking care of business. Handling my shit. Making life my bitch. I can do this.”
I step back and out of the way as she does some sort of power-skip, half-jump thing and lands on her toes. My eyebrows lift slightly, but I don’t say anything else. I’m not even sure there’s anything that can be said to calm her down at this point.
That’s not entirely true. You could tell her she doesn’t have to do this. That life happens for reasons, and maybe it’ll turn out to be a good thing that her visa expired. My stomach flips in protest, and I shake my head slightly to clear it. No, we’re doing the right thing. Saving her career. Her future. It’s not a big deal.
I’m a practical guy, rationality and logic always the foundation for my decisions. A guy like me doesn’t do impulsive shit unless it serves an actual purpose. And this, obviously, serves a very important purpose.
Actually, you don’t do impulsive shit, period.
I can’t deny this is, hands down, the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done in my life. My brothers would certainly lose their fucking minds if they were here to witness it.
But they’re not here, and according to Ty’s last update, they’re at some bar with beer pong tables and cocktail waitresses that make Hooters’ tight outfits look prim and proper. I know this because he sent me a photo of an oblivious and blindfolded Jude, smiling toward the camera, while two of the scantily clad cocktail waitresses stood beside him.
Jude would be at risk for a fucking stroke if he found out you were getting married before him…
I almost start to marinate in that thought and allow the reality to sink in, but the doors to the chapel swing open so dramatically they hit the wall with a shocking bang. Instantly, a very broad-shouldered man wearing a white halter top dress and a face full of show makeup steps into the space.
“Oh my God,” Daisy whispers, her voice rising at the very end to an almost silent shriek. “Is that…uh…Marilyn Monroe?”
I almost snort, but in deference to her obvious freak-out, I don’t. One thing is for sure, though, that is most certainly not Marilyn Monroe. But it’s a pretty damn good showing by a man trying to look like her, I have to admit.
“Daisy Diaz and Flynn Winslow?” Fake Marilyn calls out with a movie-star smile and flutter of eyelashes, and Daisy’s hand shoots out and grabs me by the forearm, her fingernails digging into my skin, even through the material of my tux jacket.
“Us? Already?” Her eyebrows practically shoot up past her hairline. “But you just handed in the clipboard, like, a second ago. What kind of operation are they running here?”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Seems like a quick one.”
Daisy’s glare is pointed and strong and oh-so amusing.
“Ready?” I ask with a simplicity the two of us know isn’t all that simple.