Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

NICHOLAS

Kavya and I stand at the old wooden bench that runs along the back wall, efficiently arranging the day's flowers. It's Saturday, which means plenty of foot traffic will come through, and the neighborhood art crawl starts this afternoon, so all the galleries have orders in.

"Any ideas for this photography exhibit?" I ask Kavya as I carefully grab another vase from the wobbly shelves. "Everything I try turns out like a wedding bouquet."

Kavya shrugs as she sticks lilac branches into her vase. "They're the ones featuring bondage photographs at the height of spring," she says flatly and wiggles her nose, which makes her septum ring bounce. "Maybe wedding bouquets are appropriate for BDSM. Roses and ranunculus. Red and pink. Just go hard."

I chuckle. "I think you're right."

Kavya is my only employee. She works full time, although I cut her off strictly at forty hours, which means I have plenty of alone time in the shop, too, burning the midnight oil to get everything done. At twenty-five, she's technically new to the industry, but I stopped calling her an apprentice after six months. She lives and breathes flowers just like I do.

She grabs some snippers from the front pocket of her worn gray overalls, one of three identical rotating pairs that she uses as her work uniform. Kavya's fashion is utilitarian, from her black boots to her shortly cropped curly hair and heavy black eyeliner, but when it comes to flowers, she's exuberant.

I grab her coffee mug, refilling it along with mine without needing to ask.

"When do you think Randy's grandson is going to stick his head in?" Kavya asks. "What time did he come by yesterday?"

"It was early yesterday, but I'm not sure when he'll be by today. His truck is out front, so I know he's around."

"Weird," Kavya says. "I still don't understand why Randy left this place to some random dude. Even if they were related. Is he queer, do you think? Or did a straight man inherit the gayest flower shop in Buffalo?"

"He hasn't indicated either way," I answer, although I'm getting the sense that he's straight.

More importantly, the risk that something could happen to the building unsettles me, but I don't want to pass any stress on to Kavya. "He can cause a lot of trouble," I acknowledge, remembering how Nance cautioned me, "but I promise, I'll let you know if I think we're going to have to move or…" I can't even bring myself to say worse. "And no matter what happens, I'll use every connection and favor I have in this industry to make sure you're taken care of."

Kavya nods. She puts her flowers down and rests her hand over her arm, where the delicate sweet pea tattoos circle her bicep. "Thanks, Nicholas. But the shop I want to work in is here. This one. With you."

I smile, grateful for her. "Good. I feel the same way."

The bell rings above the door, and the shop is back in action. I help a few customers up front while Kavya finishes the arrangements in the back. As I hustle around, I feel a larger presence enter the room, and somehow, I just know it's him.

I turn, and Clay is standing halfway into the shop. He's sporting those same jeans that fit him deviously and a worn old T-shirt for a construction company, blue fabric with faded white print.

He tightens his brow while he looks at me, and my breath hitches, the inhale slight enough that I hope he doesn't notice. His features have a rugged cut, and an easy masculine energy seems to roll off of him. I'm rarely drawn to men on the macho side, but Clay captures my attention.

"Morning, Clay," I tell him over my shoulder as I retreat straight back toward Kavya. "What can I do for you today?"

Clay follows, but stops at the counter.

"This is Kavya," I say, gesturing. "And Clay."

Kavya raises her biggest snippers. "Good morning."

Clay grunts something back. "Sorry to bother you at work again. I didn't realize how early you got started."

"I try to wake up with the flowers every day," I say cheerfully. Mariah Carey comes on the love song mix, and I offer Clay a smile. I may need to walk a delicate line, but this calls for honey, not vinegar.

"Did you have questions for me?" I ask. "Now is a fine time to talk."

"Uh, sure." He does that awkward shuffle thing again, which—why is that so adorable? "I guess, first, I found this with my grandpa's estate." He pulls a small white envelope from his back pocket. "It's for you."

My heart jumps. It's Randy's sloppy handwriting. He left me a note.

Tears well in my eyes, and Kavya reaches out, gently resting her hand on mine. I take a deep breath and compose myself before I cross to the counter. "Thank you," I say, accepting the envelope. "I appreciate that."

I tuck it away on a shelf for safekeeping, knowing I'll want privacy as I read it.

"I have another envelope for Sus—Sue and Nance," he says, catching himself. "But I don't know where they live. What were you saying yesterday?"

"The bank didn't give you a deed?" Kavya asks.

"I've tried to read it. None of it makes any damn sense. There are a million strange clauses."

"That's right," Kavya says. "Sue explained the clauses to me one time." She winces. "Yikes."

Clay looks mildly alarmed as Kavya goes back to arranging, her expression blank again.

"Sue and Nance live in the back," I tell him and point, starting at the top. "That large house. Because of city regulations, Randy wasn't able to split the property, so it's arranged kind of like a condo. You own the lot, but they own the house on the lot." I shrug. "Anyway, you should talk to them."

Clay looks confused, possibly exhausted. I wonder what the life is like that he's rushing back to. Does he have a girlfriend, maybe even a wife and kids? It's not unreasonable for him to want this to be easy.

Resigning himself, he nods. "Okay. Thanks," he says as the bell rings and customers walk in. "One other question. When is a good time to come and inspect the building? Upstairs needs some repairs, I found, and most of the utilities must be on this floor or in the basement." After a moment, he adds, "I'm a carpenter. A journeyman."

I think of him working a power tool and get a bodily reaction, an inconvenient shiver of want that tickles my gut.

"I can already tell you there's a list a mile long of repairs that Randy meant to get to. But it was always important to him to keep the original fixtures. We're not trying to remodel."

"I'm not an asshole. You couldn't pay me to rip out those door trims."

Grateful to hear that, I decide to lean in and trust my instincts. If he cares about the fixtures, seems like he would resist tearing the entire building down.

"I've got an idea," I tell him. "You can come with me on my deliveries, and I can share some of what I know."

"Oh, wow," Kavya says. "Jumping in the deep end?"

I shrug as I begin to place the bouquets in the last basket. "Best way to get to know a place." I look to Clay, who clearly doesn't know what's going on. "Sounds good? You'll help me carry flower baskets up the street. It's pretty easy."

After a long moment, he sighs. "Sure," he says, as though he's giving up. "Okay."

"Good." I take two full baskets and hand them off to him. "It will be fun!"

I grab a couple baskets of my own and head out into the day as Kavya greets the next customers. Fragrant bouquets weigh down the load, heavy in my arms, and Clay follows.

"These six blocks are the main strip of the gayborhood," I explain as the familiar bustle comes alive around us. "Allentown. It's like a village in the middle of a big city. Blossom supplies a lot of the local businesses with flowers. The café has a couple stems on each table, the bookstore sells little bouquets by the counter, even the gym and the sex store and the bear bar get an arrangement or two."

"Oh. Okay." The crowd is busy around us, even this early, and Clay holds his baskets carefully to avoid bumping into anyone. "Did you say gayborhood?"

I laugh. "Yes. That's what we call the gay district."

"Right," Clay says, voice rumbly and unreadable.

"Didn't know Buffalo had a gay district?" I try.

"No. I figured it out yesterday, but honestly, I thought only San Francisco and New York had that kind of thing."

"And San Diego and Seattle and Detroit and Atlanta and, and, and," I say with a warm laugh.

We come to a stop in front of the café, guitar music filtering through the open windows.

Clay nods seriously. "I don't have a problem with that," he says. "I'm just processing, you know?"

"I guess you didn't know that Randy was gay?"

Clay's eyes widen.

"Oh. You really didn't know that Randy was gay."

"Seems kind of obvious now that you point it out."

I duck into the café, giving him a second to process. Am I supposed to feel bad about revealing that information? It's not like Randy was closeted. He'd be offended if I let his grandson believe he was straight for even a second.

I hand off some flowers and exchange air kisses with Patrice before heading back out. Clay is standing in the middle of the sidewalk, and he hasn't lowered the baskets. Still frowning, I see that he's trying to recover.

"You okay?" I ask.

He nods sharply. "I'm fine. I just don't know anything about my… Randy. At all."

"Of course." I'm being insensitive. If I were in his position, I'd imagine I would want to know more. "Randy was single," I tell him as we continue walking. "Happily single, I should add. And he had men coming and going right up…" I trail off. Randy would probably want me to brag to anyone, including his grandson, about what a legendary lover he was. God knows he put in the hours. But I can spare Clay those details today.

The pastry shop is next, and I gesture inside. "I'm going to get a cheese Danish while we're here. Would you like one?"

It's a treat I shouldn't splurge on, but I forgot my protein bar this morning, and I don't want to run on fumes. With Clay helping me, it's only fair to drop another few dollars and get him breakfast, too.

Clay's eyes follow some people exiting. He's taking the neighborhood in. "Are the Danishes any good?" he asks suspiciously.

I laugh. "Yes. Everything in Allentown is fantastic. Come in."

The interior of the pastry shop is painted turquoise, offset with dark wood fixtures, another neighborhood establishment that's lasted through the decades. The owner, Naomi, is busy behind the counter, but her face lights up and her eyes crease when she spots me with the flowers. She's in her fifties, and she took the shop over from her aunts after working here for years.

"Gorgeous!" she says. "Are those all for me?"

I laugh. "Sorry, no. But Kavya gave you all the best lilacs."

Naomi takes the bouquet she'll keep by her register all day and inhales the sweet flowers. "Tell her I'm developing a floral addiction."

"Oh, she knows," I say with a chuckle.

"And who are you, stud muffin?" Naomi asks with a nod toward Clay as she gets out a cheese Danish. When I gesture to make it two, her eyebrows perk up. "Is this a spring romance I see? Nicholas almost never brings his sweethearts around to meet me."

"No, no," I say with a laugh, and to his credit, Clay manages to stand there without objection, although I think I spot a slight flush on his tan cheeks, which makes me warm, too. "This is Randy's grandson, Clay."

Now Naomi's eyes widen. "Clay! I can see Randy in your face now. Isn't that something? I'm Naomi. Your grandfather was a friend of mine." She turns to me. "I heard Randy had a grandson, but I thought it was a joke. Hell, I'm shocked he ever topped."

I blurt out a laugh, and an older man by the coffee snickers to himself.

Naomi hands me the Danishes. "You sticking around town, Clay?" she asks him.

Clay clears his throat. "Just long enough to, uh, take care of business," he says.

When I reach for my wallet, Naomi waves it away. "On the house," she says. "Out of love for your grandpa, Clay. He was a real son of a bitch. You've got a hell of a legacy to live up to."

"Thank you," Clay says. He takes the Danish from me and raises it slightly. "I'll do my best."

I blow a kiss to Naomi as we head out. There's an empty bench under a shady tree, and I sit immediately, plopping my basket next to me so I can eat the Danish. It's crispy and warm and cheesy, just like I love it.

Clay sits at the other end of the bench, and he lets out a pleased grumble as he eats his pastry.

He didn't flee in horror upon learning that his grandfather was a famous bottom, and he is helping me with today's deliveries. The gayborhood might win him over yet.

"Everyone in Allentown knew Randy," I tell him. "You'll probably get a lot of that."

He huffs to himself. "A lot of what? Candid looks into his sex life?"

I chuckle, glad he can joke about it. "He had a filthy mouth and no sense of decorum. But he made it part of his charm. People are just paying him honor when they talk like that."

Clay nods. "I guess I get it."

"Is the rest of your family like Randy?" I ask.

"My family isn't close," he says. "Don't really talk, so I don't know."

"Oh." I'm about to say I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm not sure if that's right. I've known lots of people who aren't close with their families of origin, and everyone's experience of it is pretty different. "I understand. Randy didn't talk to anyone else in your family, either."

Clay glances around. "How long have you lived here?"

"As a matter of fact, I grew up in the gayborhood," I tell him. "My current house is three blocks that way," I say, pointing, and then twist. "My parents live two blocks that way now. And I grew up five blocks in that direction."

"Your parents?"

"They're straight, but it's been a gay neighborhood for almost a century, and they have a lot of gay friends. There was a lot of LGBT political organizing in Allentown in the 1950s, especially. When I was growing up, there was a gorgeous flower shop right down the street here that had served the gay community for decades, and it inspired me to be a florist. As I was starting off my own career, Allentown Florist shut down, and I decided to fill the gap. So except for a few years of college, I've been right here my entire life. I wouldn't have it any other way."

That's probably way more information than he wanted, but Clay nods appreciatively. "I lived in the same corner of Missouri my whole life."

"You'll go back when you're done here?"

"Not to the same town, but I'm sticking to the region. I've got plans."

He doesn't say more, and I'm inclined to ask, but he looks out toward the distance, not giving me an opening. Instead, I respect his silence and pop the last bite of pastry into my mouth, savoring it.

"Onward?" I ask, and Clay nods.

We head toward the bookstore, an array of pride flags hanging out front and a massive mural of gay authors painted on the stone side of the building.

"That pastry really was good," he says to himself.

"Told you," I say, shooting him a smile as we cross the street. I wave at some neighbors, shifting the basket on my arm. It's obvious everyone is wondering who Clay is, and I have to chuckle at the knowing glances.

"Why is everyone staring at me?" he asks.

I take a couple of bouquets from his basket. "Because you're walking around with me, and they're all wondering the same thing Naomi wondered."

"If we're dating?" he asks carefully.

"You know how small towns love gossip. And I'm famously specific about my romantic expectations."

"Excuse me?"

"One moment."

I step into the bookstore, weave around a stack of bisexual biographies, and deposit the day's flowers by the register as I blow air kisses to a friend in the back. When I return to the street, Clay is again waiting patiently.

"As the flower shop and endless love songs might have indicated, I'm a romantic," I explain. "And to me, that means that I take love seriously, and I expect some magic on the journey. The fact that you're walking around with me in the morning is making everyone wonder if you spent the night last night, which I'd only do after an investment of dates and a little swooning, so they're surprised because no one has seen you before. But don't worry. The intrigue won't last. Once everyone learns that you're Randy's grandson, that's all they will want to talk about. That and how ruggedly good-looking you are."

Whoops! Maybe shouldn't have said that last bit out, but it's too late to take it back.

When I glance, Clay shifts the basket in his arm without commenting, and I can't help but smile to myself.

"What about you?" I ask. "Do you have a… girlfriend?"

"Nope," Clay mumbles.

"Ah. Not the dating type, maybe? Although as my parents can attest, the magic of the gayborhood can make even straight people fall in love."

"I'm bi," he blurts out awkwardly, his voice clipped. As soon as he says it, he grimaces, his jaw grinding. "I mean, no," he adds. "Not dating anyone. And not looking."

Everything rewires in my brain. My scalp gets warm. I have to do a little skip to let out some nervous energy.

"Oh, cool," I say, embarrassed for the faux pas. "Welcome to the gayborhood. Sorry to make assumptions."

"You're fine," Clay says and grunts. "Want to tell me more about the building?" he asks, changing the subject quickly back to business. "I'm eager to know."

"Of course." I gesture toward the gym, dance music pumping from inside, and get my head back together. "This way."