“Oh, yeah.” I nodded. “Sorry, you caught me a little off-guard.”
“Great.” He shoved the glass vase containing the roses into my hands. “Enjoy!” With that, he bounced down the steps and into an unmarked delivery van.
Stunned, I kicked the door shut and carried the flowers into the kitchen, setting them down on the counter. A white card sticking out of the blooms caught my attention, and I plucked it out, sliding the note from inside a tiny envelope.
Kitten, these are the same beautiful shade of pink your cheeks turned the day we met.
My mouth dropped open.
Kitten was a dead giveaway.
These were from the lunatic at the DMV, who had some sort of fetish for being yelled at and—at least in his mind—believed us to be in a relationship.
After a week, I’d shoved him to the back of my mind, but now there he was again, front and center.
I was related to guys who took lives when the occasion called for it, but somehow, the DMV guy—Sasha—was more dangerous because he was unpredictable; his mind wasn’t in touch with reality.
Hence, the flowers and some creepy note about the angry flush of my cheeks matching the color of the roses.
My first instinct was to toss them. If he was some kind of creepy stalker—as I’d initially accused him of being—he might be watching me, and keeping them would only encourage this unhinged behavior, allowing him to believe we were on the same page.
But then there was the part of my brain that argued no one had ever sent me flowers before, which begged me not to throw them away. That part, apparently, was a perfect match for the crazy person who’d purchased the roses because it won out.
The compromise I allowed myself was placing them on the dresser in my bedroom, where I had blackout curtains and no one could see inside. I would get to enjoy their beauty and fragrance in private without leading a potential psychopath tobelieve that I was accepting of his gift and affection if he did have eyes on me.
Yeah, I knew it was fucked up, but somewhere deep inside of me was a little girl who’d never witnessed a romantic relationship, let alone experienced one firsthand. And for just a minute, I wanted to pretend that maybe, in another life, I could have seen what real love looked like.
More fucking flowers.
“No.” I shook my head at the delivery driver. “I refuse to accept these. Take them back.”
He heaved a sigh, having been on the receiving end of this rant before. “Like I told you the last time, ma’am, I don’t work for the floral shop. I’m just contracted for the deliveries.”
“Then donate them. I don’t care what you do. I don’t want them.”
This was the third arrangement sent, each arriving the day after the previous one wilted.
The panic was rising that I was indeed being watched. The timing couldn’t be a coincidence.
When it became clear that I wouldn’t be agreeable to the handoff, the driver placed them on my front porch before whipping out his phone and taking what I assumed was a picture to prove he’d dropped them off.
“Like I said, I’m paid to deliver the flowers. No delivery, no payment. If you have an issue, take it up with the florist.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, not caring that I openly glared at him as he hopped behind the wheel and backed out of my driveway.
The shiver that rolled down my spine had nothing to do with the early November chill. The idea of that unhinged man watching me, timing his flower deliveries so they were always fresh, was too much. He hadn’t seemed dangerous with his bright smile and peppy attitude, but how many times did they interview neighbors of serial killers on the news where they were all expressing their shock because he was “such a nice guy?”
I’d just gotten my freedom. I didn’t want to lose it by getting chained up in some psycho’s basement because he had delusions about us being a couple.
Letting out a frustrated scream, I scooped up the arrangement that mimicked the colors of the changing fall leaves and kicked the door shut behind me. Setting it down on the kitchen counter, I plucked the white card from between the blossoms. But instead of slipping the message from the envelope, I scanned the logo of the flower shop printed on the outside.
Grabbing my phone, I did a quick internet search, which pulled up the business’s information, and placed the call that would hopefully put a stop to this insanity.
The line rang twice in my ear before the call connected. “Fresh as a Daisy Floral. This is Jeff. How can I help you?”
I used my service voice. “Hi there, Jeff. I was hoping you might be able to help me out regarding some arrangements I’ve been sent over the past few weeks.”
“Something wrong with them?”
“No, they’re beautiful,” I assured him, brightening my tone. “The problem is with the sender.”
