Page 6 of Eye of the Beholder
“What do you need me to do?” I say to Shana, who’s about halfway through some sort of thick paperback.
Shana holds up a finger, not looking up from her book. I wait for a second until she finishes her page, and then she looks up at me.
“Okay,” she says. Her curly brown hair isn’t quite contained by her ponytail; several corkscrews break free here and there, giving her the look of a spunky lion with a curly mane framing its face. “Sorry. Montgomery is on the trail of the murderer—”
“And something so game-changing happened that you couldn’t put down the book to answer my question?” I say. I smile, amused, and she has the decency to look chagrined.
“We’re caught up for now anyway, I think,” she says. “It looks like it’s going to be a slow evening.”
“Have you read this one before?” I say, nodding to her book.
“No,” she says with a happy sigh, “but it’s great so far. Did you bring anything? What are you reading?”
I should have brought my biology stuff. “I’m not reading anything right now,” I say. “And I didn’t bring anything.”
“You’re welcome to browse my secret stash,” she says, gesturing vaguely to the cupboard beneath the cash register, where I know she keeps several novels. Her nose is back in her book again.
“I’m good,” I say. “I’ll just—” But I break off, because she’s not listening anyway.
I scoot out from behind the counter and start wandering the shop instead. It’s not very big, and the colors and decorations are maybe more garish than I would prefer, but I would spend all my time here if I could. We keep the walls lined with things like vases and candles and soaps to buy, and then there’s a big flower display in the center of the shop. Right now it’s a pleasant conglomeration of fall bouquets, with oranges and reds and yellows in abundance. Not my favorite color palette—I’m a spring girl—but still beautiful.
I restrain myself from touching any of the arrangements as I circle the display; our boss, Gina, doesn’t like other people messing with her personal arrangements unless we have permission. Still, I can’t stop myself here and there from tucking a few flowers back or pulling some forward just a bit. Gina has hidden all the helenium at the back of the display so it won’t be as visible—or in some places, she’s woven it in with other flowers. She wants it to sell, but she thinks it’s ugly, which is sad. It doesn’t need to be prettier, and it doesn’t need to be hidden. Yes, all flowers look and smell unique, but isn’t that what makes them beautiful?
So I bring some of it forward. Just a little bit. Because that’s myjob. To make the flowers look pretty. I’m just doing my job.
I hear the bell over the door jingle, and I jump, whirling around and yanking my hand away from the display as though I’ve been slapped.
“Welcome to Gina’s,” I say automatically—and too soon, because the customers aren’t even through the door yet.
My heart, instead of slowing down like it’s supposed to, picks up in speed when I realize who’s coming through the door.
It’s Jack. Jack and Cohen. They enter and stand awkwardly for a minute, looking completely uncomfortable to be in a florist’s.
Not as uncomfortable as me, though. I scamper back behind the counter, almost tripping over my feet in the process. Shana looks up at me in surprise.
“Girl, your face is as red as—” she begins, but she cuts off as she sees our customers. “Oh,” she says, a knowing look on her face. “Guys. All right, you take this one. I’m going to the bathroom.”
“What?” I hiss. “You’ve had this whole time to use the restroom!”
“Hope you’re feeling flirtatious,” she says, grinning mischievously. She slips into the back, and I’m left alone with Jack and Cohen approaching the counter.
Shana is going to find all her mystery novels missing when she gets back. I will make sure of that.
Jack and Cohen are inching painfully slowly to the counter—like their manliness hinges on who gets there slower—but they finally reach it, and I try to smile.
It doesn’t really work. I think it’s more of a scrunched grimace. “How can I help you today?” I say, my words more squeak than speech. I avert my gaze slightly, hoping Jack doesn’t notice that my eyes are two different colors.
“Sorry?” Jack says.
“You sound weird,” Cohen says, frowning. “Are you sick?”
“No,” I say. “I just—” No, actually; sick sounds like a good excuse. I fake a cough. “I mean, yes. Sorry. What can I do for you?”
“Jack needs some flowers,” Cohen says, giving me a funny look—like he knows I’m not really sick.
“Obviously,” I say before I can stop myself. “Whatkindof flowers?”
Cohen grins, but Jack eyes us. “Do you guys know each other?” he says.
