5. Bud

It was late afternoon,and with only one day to go before the grand opening of Bud's Blooms, I was finally beginning to lose the nerves and get excited. Aunt Bea's vision was coming to life. The walls and ceiling were jet black, the shelving and urns were in place, the chandelier was up, and the antique birdcages were hanging from the ceiling, with flowers and vines already cascading down from them. All that was left to do was for Harry to hook up the fountain and get it running, and for me and Maggie to figure out how the heck to work the cash register.

"I think if we press this one, then this one, the thingy will go ka-ching and the whatsy will pop open," Maggie offered helpfully.

I tried it and nothing happened. "What if we press this button then this big one over here, then we'll hear ching-ching and the gahoozy will open with a ping?"

"Then you and me just sit back and watch the money come rolling in," grinned Maggie.

We tried it, and still nothing happened.

Overhearing us, Harry wriggled his hulking frame out from under the fountain. "Stop, before you break the damn thing. Let me show you how it's done."

With ease he lifted himself up off the floor and joined us at the counter. "Okay, so over on the left are all the number buttons, and here on the right are the tender buttons. Those will help you work out any change you need to give. So, for example, if someone buys a bunch of daisies for fourteen ninety-five as well as a potted petunia for twenty-five ninety-five, then they hand you fifty dollars cash, what you would do is hit the subtotal button, then type in—"

"Ooh, ooh, ooh, I can do this one in my head," insisted Maggie. "Let me think. Fourteen ninety-five plus twenty-one forty-five…"

"I think it was twenty-five ninety-five," I said.

"Don't make me lose my concentration, Bud. Twenty-three forty-two plus sixteen ninety-nine minus the fifty dollars from the customer means… wait a minute… I got this… means we owe the customer forty-six dollars and seventeen cents change. Right?"

Harry's brow creased. "Are you just making up numbers?"

"Far from it. I have one of those beautiful minds, like the movie, you know? Don't feel bad. It's hard for normal people to grasp."

Harry looked from me to Maggie then back to me. "Just out of interest… who's running the register?"

Maggie laughed as though the answer was obvious. "Me, of course. Bud here is hopeless with numbers."

I rolled my eyes. "Speaking of numbers. Maggie, you did get the float for the register earlier this afternoon, right?"

Maggie bit her bottom lip before saying, "Well, the honest answer is, yes but no."

"What do you mean, ‘yes but no'?"

"‘Yes' when you asked me to do it I had every intention of doing so. But ‘no' I did not get it because as soon as you mentioned the word ‘float' I just had to run down to Clarry's Ice Cream Parlor and get me a root beer float. They are so good. I got you one too, Bud… but I kinda drank it before I got back. Sorry about that."

"Maggie! It's our grand opening tomorrow. We need money in the register."

"Right. So I can give people their change."

"No, so that I can give people their change." I glanced at my watch. "The bank closes in two minutes. If you hurry you might be able to get there before Mrs. Butterworth closes the doors."

"I'm on it, boss!" Maggie ran straight for the door, pushed it open and turned right.

Before the door closed completely, I yelled after her, "No, Maggie! That's the way to Clarry's. The bank is the other way."

"Got it boss!" she shouted back as she turned and disappeared in the right direction.

My shoulders sank with a sigh.

I felt the nerves returning, only they were suddenly ten times worse.

Harry must have seen the look on my face and gave me an encouraging pat on the back. "Don't stress, Bud. Maggie will get the hang of everything… in time. And you will too. I know when I first opened the hardware store, everything seemed so daunting. I'd never run my own business before. Hell, I didn't even know how to plan a roster. But I did know tools, and timber, and what size wrench you need to fix a leaky pipe. If you know what you're selling… if you believe in what you're selling… one day things will fall into place."

I felt my smile return. "I do believe in what I'm selling. I just have to look around at the sunflowers and orchids and lilies and carnations and they make me smile. And I know that whoever buys them, well, they'll be smiling too. It sounds simple, I know, but that's okay. I'm a simple kinda guy."

Harry squeezed my shoulder. "I'm a simple kinda guy, too. Although sometimes I do overthink things."

"Like what?"

He hesitated a moment, then admitted, "Sounds stupid, but sometimes I worry what certain people think of me."

"You? Worry what people think? Harry, everyone loves you."

He gave a coy shrug. "I guess I want certain people to love me more than others. Or at least, a certain someone." Before I could delve any deeper, he suddenly turned on the cheer again. "But hey, like I said before, maybe one day things will fall into place. In the meantime…"

He stepped over to the fountain, flicked a switch that was concealed under the rim, and suddenly water streamed up into the air as though the harp-playing cupid statues were peeing into the fountain.

My eyes lit up. "Harry! You did it! Look at that, it looks… um… are those babies supposed to be piddling into the fountain like that?"

Harry shrugged. "I didn't design the thing. I just connected the hose."

"Well, those chubby peeing babies look amazing. Thank you!"

"My pleasure. If you see anything spring a leak, let me know. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go relieve Walt and Gage at the store before I head off to Andy's for some Friday night poker."

"Oh say, I keep meaning to ask you… how's Andy's son, Dean? He's living out in L.A. now, right? He's some kinda famous rockstar nowadays, right?"

"Yeah, he's something like that," Harry replied awkwardly. "I don't really know. Who knows? He's probably going to lots of parties, I guess. Probably got himself some rich, famous girlfriend by now… I guess."

"Probably," I agreed, not really thinking about it.

Harry looked slightly concerned. "You think he does?"

"Does what?"

"You think he's got a rich, famous girlfriend now?"

"Maybe. I guess so. I actually have no idea."

"Me neither. But I wouldn't be surprised if he's going out with someone super famous like Taylor Swift by now. I mean, he's a rockstar… and kinda good looking… and he's probably definitely going out with Taylor Swift."

"Definitely."

"You think so?"

"Yes? No? I feel like I really don't have the correct answer for that question. I've never even been to L.A. so what would I know?"

"You're right. You're totally right. Who knows if he has a girlfriend or not."

"Who knows." I gave him a concerned look. "Are you okay, Harry?"

"Me? Fine? Totally. I'm good. I'm absolutely fine. Just got my mind on poker, that's all. Getting into game mode, you know."

I got the feeling Harry had his mind on something alright, but it wasn't poker.

"Anyway, I'd better be going," he said, promptly packing his toolbox and giving my hand a firm shake. "Good luck with the grand opening tomorrow, Bud. I'll tell everyone who comes into the hardware store to drop by and pick up some flowers. Bud's Blooms is gonna be a hit, I know it. And just wait till the Frenchman opens his patisserie next door. Who can resist flowers and cake? Talk about a match made in heaven."

"Wait… he's opening a patisserie? You've met him?"

Harry nodded. "He dropped by the hardware store this morning to pick up a few supplies. Screws, nails… and a sledgehammer, which was kinda weird. He must be planning to knock down some walls."

"What was he like?"

"Um, kind of abrupt, if I'm honest. But he's new in town. I guess it takes some folks a little time to warm up to people."

That night as the sun went down, I did one final sweep of the floors, then leaned on my broom and proudly looked around at my little store. The next day I would welcome the world to my dream. The butterflies started flapping again, but I knew my friends—my family—had my back:

Maggie would be there, overcharging or undercharging everyone for their purchases;

Mitch and Gage would be there filling balloons with helium while Ginny handed them out to customers;

Aunt Bea, well she'd be there just to look fabulous;

While I intended to drift about, helping people with advice on flowers, offering to gift-wrap bouquets, and hoping deep down that everyone loved my little store.

"It's gonna be fine," I told myself. "Like Harry said, everything will fall into place."

I switched off the main lights and kept two display lights on in the windows, in case any passers-by wanted to take a peek before the grand opening, then headed upstairs to my apartment.

In the past few days Bea had shuffled furniture around, positioned a vase here and a lamp there, tossed cushions and throws with casual flare over my second-hand sofa and bed, and before I knew it, she'd transformed my apartment into something out of a catalog. "Voila," she had said when she was done. "Chic but not shabby. Glamorous but not girly. The perfect place for a bachelor and business owner about to take control of his own destiny."

I had to agree.

And although I wouldn't have thought to pick any of the same furniture out for myself, Bea had succeeded in creating a space where I felt totally at home.

Perhaps a little too at home.

The night before, as I'd settled in to relax, thoughts of my nine-and-a-half-out-of-ten neighbor popped into my head and I couldn't get him out. Before I knew it, I was in the shower and jerking off to thoughts of a complete stranger I hadn't even spoken to yet.

As I pulled off my shirt now and grabbed a beer out of the fridge, just as I had done the night before, the guy next door sprang into my head once more.

French, huh?

A cake maker, huh?

I was about to slide my jeans off and have a little more fun at the thought of him again when I heard a loud thud from somewhere outside. I looked over at the window and saw the view straight into the apartment next door.

The Frenchman was inside, his shirt off and his torso gleaming. He was trim and lean, his muscles like those of a sculpture.

"Who knew you'd get a body like that making cupcakes," I mumbled to myself.

I watched his biceps flex as he raised a sledgehammer and struck the wall of what looked like his bedroom.

Thud!

Harry was right. The guy really did plan on knocking down a few walls.

I didn't mind at all.

In fact, I pulled up a chair to watch the show when suddenly I realized—

"Wait a minute. If I've got such a good view of him, that must mean he has a good view of…"

I looked from where I sat straight into the Frenchman's bedroom.

I turned around and looked behind me, sizing up the view that he must have had of my place the night before—where I took my shirt off, where I grabbed my beer, where I stripped off my jeans.

"Oh shit."

I raced into the bathroom and saw the direct line from his window straight into my shower.

"Oh fuck."

Had he watched me jerk off?

"No!" I answered myself. "Surely not."

Fully clothed, I jumped into the shower and peered through the clear curtain, through my window and over to his. I still had an unobstructed view of him laying the sledgehammer into his bedroom wall.

Thud!went the hammer.

Thump-thump!went my heart.

"He totally could have seen me."

Thud!

Thump-thump! Thump-thump!

I walked back into my living room and began pacing the floor. "Oh God, I need to go and apologize… or explain myself… or… Shit, what do you say to someone who watched you spanking the monkey? Sorry about the free peepshow? Or maybe he didn't peep at all. He's French, he's got more class than that. Maybe he closed his curtains and turned away. Maybe he wasn't even home," I reasoned. "I should just leave it. I should just pretend nothing happened."

I glanced back out the window and suddenly I saw him looking straight back at me, a scowl on his handsome face.

He pushed his luscious, wavy black hair away from his brow with one hand.

I didn't know what else to do but give a nervous smile and a twinkle-fingered wave.

He responded by dropping the sledgehammer, storming up to his window and yanking the curtains closed.

"Oh fuck, he totally saw me doing it."

I quickly closed my curtains too, then started pacing back and forth even faster, my panicked thoughts stumbling and bumbling from my lips. "Oh God, we haven't even said hello yet and already he's seen my shrinky-dink. Not that there was anything shrinky about it last night. God, what if he's a mind reader? What if he knows I was jerking off to him… that narrow waist of his, those mysterious eyes, those stern lips. Geez, if I wasn't sure whether I was gay or not before, I sure as hell am now. I can already tell Bea knows it, she's constantly digging for clues. And Mitch and Gage, they must know for sure, they're gay and all gays have gaydars, right? And Maggie…" I stopped pacing. "Actually, Maggie wouldn't have a clue. Hell, this morning she was wearing her boots on the wrong feet, there's no way she's figured out my secret yet. But the guy next door, he's no dummy. Like I said, he's French, right? They're smart, right? They know fancy things like art and history and hell, they even know how to speak French… they must be smart. Fuck! Not only has he seen my bony macaroni, he for sure knows I've got the hots for him. Oh God, could this get any worse?"

I paused a moment, trying desperately to calm myself down while listening to the voice in my head that told me not to take another peek through the curtains.

Don't peek, the voice said.

Don't open the curtains, the voice said.

Well, maybe just a little bit, the voice said. He is a total hottie, after all.

I did what the voice told me and parted the curtains an inch, putting my eye up to the slit.

Across the way, the curtains of his bedroom window were still closed.

But the curtains in his living room were wide open.

And there was my sexy neighbor, this time up a ladder unscrewing a light fitting with a screwdriver. Yes, he had moved to the next room, and there he was, shirtless and in full view.

Was he an exhibitionist?

A cad?

A provocateur? Hell, I wasn't sure what a provocateur even was.

Nor did I care.

All I could whisper to myself was "Ooh-la-la," as I watched, his arms flexing, the muscles in his shoulders tightening and flinching as he worked on the fitting.

I felt myself getting hard again and rubbed the bulge in my jeans.

I parted the curtains a little more to get a better look, then yanked them open even farther, and then—

The old curtain rod above me slid off the bracket and the drapes came crashing down on my head, rod and all, completely exposing me as I stood there in the window, one hand rubbing my bulge, the other frantically trying to find a way out of the curtains like a ghost trying to pull off his own sheet.

"Fuck, shit, fuck!"

By the time I managed to wrestle the curtains off me, my next door neighbor was again standing in his window, glaring at me. With an angry yank he tugged the curtains in his living room closed too.

"Oh geez, now he really thinks I'm some sort of weirdo pervert. I can never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever meet him face-to-face. If I do, I'll just die."

Which means he'll forever think of you as the weirdo pervert next door, the voice in my head told me. You need to meet him face-to-face, right now, and prove how normal you really are.

"Absolutely!" I agreed. "I should go and say hello, show him I'm not some sort of freak." Suddenly a great idea popped into my head. "I know! I'll take him one of the balloons for the grand opening. Everyone loves balloons. Right?"

"I hate balloons."

I stood there on his doorstep with a balloon I'd just filled with helium from the tank I got for the grand opening. I looked at him, confused. "But everybody loves balloons."

"I don't," he told me in his thick, sexy French accent, his screwdriver in hand. He was still topless, sweaty, an air of confidence about him that bordered on arrogance as he said, "You might think that everybody loves balloons, but I don't. I'm not everybody."

"But it's got my logo on it. Look, Bud's Blooms."

"I don't care. I told you, I hate balloons."

"Why?"

"Because the joy you get from a balloon is only temporary. Inevitably, that joy will end. Sooner or later, every balloon pops."

"Isn't that the same for flowers? Or cakes? We enjoy them for a moment—we love that moment—and then the flowers wilt, or we scrape up the crumbs from a cake and the taste is gone. But we don't hate them for it. We just go back for more when we're ready."

"Balloons are different."

"Why?"

"Because when they pop, they scare the shit out of everyone."

With a jab of his screwdriver, he suddenly popped my balloon.

I jumped with fright. "What did you do that for?"

"To prove my point. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

He moved to shut the door, but I stuck my foot in the way. "Wait. I didn't really come here to give you a balloon."

"Good, because I was beginning to think you were some sort of weirdo pervert."

"What? Me? No!" I overcompensated with a little too much laughter. "Me? A weirdo pervert? No way."

"Then why were you spying on me through your window?"

"Oh. That. I wasn't… I wasn't spying on you. I was trying to let a butterfly out that got trapped in my apartment."

He looked at me curiously. "May I ask your name?"

I smiled. Things were looking up. "Bud. As in Bud's Blooms."

"Your surname is Blooms?"

"No. My surname is Sanders. Bud Sanders. Bud's Blooms is the name of my flower shop."

"Well, Monsieur Sanders, I regret to inform you that you're a terrible liar."

"What? Me? No! I'm… I'm…"

"Lying. About the butterfly. There was no butterfly."

"How do you know?"

"Because part of my job is to read people. When they eat my pastries, when they taste my delights, I watch their faces, their eyes, to see what's going on in their heads, their hearts, the moment my work touches their taste buds. I know when someone genuinely melts at the mouth-watering perfection of my pastries. I also know when someone is… how do you say… faking it. You, Monsieur Sanders, are a faker."

"Oh God, I'm not! I'm really not! You're right, I was lying about the butterfly. And you're right again, I am a terrible liar. The truth is, I came over here to say… well… I'm sorry if you saw more than you would have liked to have seen last night… through my window. I've been so distracted with getting my store ready for the grand opening tomorrow, I didn't even think about closing the curtains. I didn't think that someone might be looking straight across at me while I…"

I gulped before I could finish that sentence.

"You think I was peeping at you while you—"

"No!" I said, cutting him off before he could even guess what I might have been doing. "No, I'm not saying you were peeping… or peering… or even casting a casual glance in my direction. All I'm saying is, I'm sorry if you got an eyeful of something you weren't expecting. I just wanted to do the neighborly thing and apologize. And introduce myself. And I guess I'll be going now."

I turned and started walking away…

My heart pounding…

My face so flushed it burned…

In my head I heard Harry's voice echoing, "I guess it takes some folks a little time to warm up to people."

And then from behind me I heard—

"Monsieur Sanders."

I stopped in my tracks and turned around.

Standing there in his doorway, my sexy French neighbor said, "It would be impolite not to introduce myself in return. I am Monsieur Pascal Dupont. Perhaps when I open my patisserie and you taste one of my creations for the first time, I'll see whether you're a faker or not. Until then…"

With that he stepped back inside and slammed his door shut.

Standing there on the pavement between our two shops, I couldn't help but smile and admit to myself—

"Fuck, he's intimidating. And kinda scary. But holy shit is he hot."