Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

NICHOLAS

When the last customer for the day leaves, I lock the door behind her. Maid in Manhattan plays quietly on the television, with J.Lo whisked off to the park for a dog-walk in an inadvertently stolen jacket, but the shop is otherwise still after a busy day.

Clay is working in the basement, and I find myself aware of that fact again. Just as quickly, though, my thoughts circle back to the letter from Randy.

I settle behind the counter and get it out, reading the letter over again.

Nicky,

Sorry about the building. Truth is it's a mess, and I never had the money to fix it. If you're reading this, looks like I kicked the bucket before the roof did, haha.

I thought about leaving it all to you, but I'm worried it might be more cost to fix up than it's worth. I saw that astrologer on Patch Street about it, and she said I should leave the whole mess to my grandson. So if you're mad about this, take it up with the stars!

I love you dearly, Nicky. It was very important to me that I have a flower shop downstairs, and you made it a beautiful one.

Now please go and get laid in my honor.

Hugs and kisses, Randy.

I let out a soft chuckle as I shake my head. Randy knew that I have a strict policy, no hookups in the gayborhood, but he always joked that I was going to have to pick up the slack once he was gone.

For years, he told me the list of needed repairs was nothing urgent, and even though I had moments of doubt, I chose to accept that. It's just like Randy to keep my rent unreasonably low instead of raising it to pay for the renovations. Everything he did made you want to hug him and shake him at the same time.

A rattling noise at the basement gets my attention, and Clay emerges from downstairs.

Speaking of men who elicit strong reactions.

"Evening, Clay," I say as I tuck the note back under the counter. The decrepit state of the building is my problem, too, but I find myself sympathetic to Clay's position. He's inherited a headache, and he's still learning the extent of it.

Ever since he came out to me, I'm trying to reassess Clay and how I feel about him. He's given me plenty of signs that he's a good person, but he's also possibly the grim reaper of Blossom's future. The reality that I'm physically attracted to him further complicates it, although I haven't noticed any indications that he's attracted to me.

I rewire my brain back to what matters. Clay is going to sell the building. The decisions he makes now will shape my entire future.

"Evening," Clay says as he wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. He's wearing a heavy tool belt with his old cargo shorts, and his t-shirt is wet with sweat, shaping itself to the contours of his beefy body. There's dirt on his neck and his arms and his left cheek, and his boots are dusty from the basement.

A whoosh of desire goes through me, taking the air right out of my lungs.

With a tool belt and sweaty muscles, Clay is in his element and fully present and embodied, not glaring at the ground or backing out the door.

"Sorry to disturb," he says.

"You're fine," I tell him, composing myself. "We're closed for the day, so now is a good time. You have any luck down there?"

"Not much." He starts to walk into the shop, then looks down at himself. "I shouldn't track dirt in."

"Just take your boots off. And don't touch anything."

Clay bends to untie his boots. "I can see hairline fractures in the foundation, which isn't great but also isn't the biggest problem. But there are too many damn boxes in the way to do a proper check. If I find a bigger issue, I know some masonry, but I'm no expert."

I nod. "Randy loved his boxes. They accumulated over the years. He always insisted it didn't count as hoarding if he kept everything in boxes."

"They're all his?" He steps out of his boots and walks into the shop, white socks on the hardwood floor. "I looked in a couple. Seemed like old junk, honestly. Magazines, broken bobbleheads. One had a bunch of plates with actresses from old movies on them."

I laugh. "If it looks like old junk, that's only because it is old junk. Randy even called it that."

"He did?"

"Well, he called it his old gay junk. And then he made endless jokes about his old gay junk. You can probably fill in the blanks."

He huffs and rubs the back of his head.

Before, I had assumed these reactions were because he was unfamiliar with gay people and gay cultures. Now, I realize I was wrong about that.

Clay is gruff, but I'm learning not to read into it. He's just uncomfortable and guarding himself. For all I know, he has good reason to be this way.

"I'll have to drag the boxes out to assess the rest of the basement," he says.

I nod sympathetically. "Sorry. That sounds like a real pain."

"It's fine," he mutters. His eyes tilt to the television screen, where J.Lo avoids Ralph Fiennes back at the hotel, and Clay's gaze lingers for a second before he turns back to me.

"You like Maid in Manhattan ?" I ask.

"I don't think I know it."

"Seriously? It's a modern classic rom-com."

"I don't watch those," he says.

"Never?"

"No. I like how-to videos on YouTube. And action or sci-fi if I'm watching a movie."

I walk along a table of potted plants, pretending to busy myself because I suddenly have nervous energy and it's hard to stop from noticing the smudge of dirt on his cheekbone, which is sexy in a way dirt has no right to be.

"I play rom-coms every afternoon," I tell him. "It's love songs until lunch, and then movies for the second part of the day."

"You don't get sick of it?"

"Love and romance? Never. People buy flowers for all occasions, of course, but anniversaries, dates, and commitment ceremonies are our bread and butter. It's a big part of what drew me to the business. Every day can be a celebration, and there's nothing worth celebrating more than love."

Clay grunts. He shifts his tool belt and remains standing toward the rear of the store.

"Not a fan of love?" I ask casually.

Not that I should care. Clay doesn't even live here. I'm just making small talk, I guess.

"It's not for me," he says flatly. "I'm glad to stay single."

I nod. "Good for you."

And he didn't take Gunther's number. He could just not be interested in Gunther, but it makes me wonder if Clay is the type of single who has casual hookups or not.

Purely out of curiosity.

"Single life can be full of romance, too," I say cheerfully. "There's magic in my friendships. Like with my friend Finn—you might get to meet him soon. We've never dated or hooked up, but we love to get dinner together at nice restaurants, or meet up for friend-dates and cocktails. And I'm known to give all of my friends bouquets. A little romance should be in everyone's life who wants it, in my opinion, single or partnered."

Clay snorts. "You can keep the magic and romance. I've got other shit to worry about."

I laugh, knowing he doesn't mean it dismissively. "Right. You're not lingering to talk about love. You want to see the toilet, right?" I walk over to the little bathroom and pull the creaky door open, returning our conversation to much safer ground. "It's right here," I say.

"Right," Clay says as he joins me. "The broken toilet."

"It's not totally broken. You just have to jiggle the handle a lot to get it to stop running, and it does these random gurgles. It clogs easily, too." I jiggle the handle, and it starts running again before letting out a gurgle. "See?"

Clay steps into the tiny bathroom, occupying the space with me. Our bodies brush together, and when his musky scent hits my nose, desire thrums through me.

He jiggles the handle roughly, and the toilet stops running. "Got it," he says. "I'll add this to my list."

I step out of the bathroom, releasing a tightly held breath as I do. "Thanks. You know, I've lived with the quirks of the building for years, and it's been relatively fine."

"I'm not sure everyone has the patience for a loud toilet," he says. "Hell, I don't know if I do."

"I suppose if you sell the building to someone who isn't a developer," I try, "this kind of thing might make a difference."

"Won't know anything until I consider my options," he mutters, but after a moment, turns and catches my eye.

A tremble goes through me, and I swear I can feel it work through Clay, too. We're connected, studying each other, him in his sweaty t-shirt and me in my thrifted pink linen suit jacket, each surrounded by tulips and roses and peonies.

Clay clears his throat, breaking the moment. "My to-do list just grew a hell of a lot longer," he says. "I'll have to move those boxes when the shop is closed."

"Anytime outside of business hours is fine. I stay late most days, too, so you'll see me here."

When Clay pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and uses it to wipe off his face, my knees get a little weak, and the full reality of the situation hits me, earning a surprised laugh.

He lowers his handkerchief. "What?"

"I just realized that Randy's bi carpenter grandson is going to be working at the shop. You have no idea how many numbers you're going to get."

He looks like he's about to stammer, and I have to bite back a grin. He's cute when he's flummoxed, but I don't want to embarrass him further.

"It's not like that," Clay says roughly.

I take sympathy on him, but I want to prepare Clay for the situation, too. "It's only that your grandfather's reputation precedes you. And I don't think you appreciate how regularly the gossip train runs in the gayborhood. You might want to brace yourself."

Clay looks moderately distressed by that, which makes sense. I enjoy some flirtatious attention, but I realize he probably wouldn't.

"Listen," he says, "what I'm trying to say is it's not like that because I'm not bi."

I blink. "What?" I ask, confused. Did I hallucinate that entire conversation?

Oh my god, am I so horny for Clay that I misheard him? Randy was right—I clearly do need to get laid.

"Fuck. I mean, I am. Or something. I don't know. I've never done anything about it. And it's not something I usually talk about."

"Oh."

I scold myself for acting carelessly and making assumptions yet again. Of course he could be anywhere on his path. And he's not much of a talker, so I need to pay particularly close attention to what he does offer me and stop filling in the blanks. I'm curious to understand Clay better.

"Sorry that, uh, I suggested the entire town would be gossiping about your sexuality, in that case."

Clay sighs. "It's fine. I'm the one who blurted it out on a crowded street."

"Right. Why did you do that?"

He huffs, one hand on his hammer at the hip of his tool belt. "Hell if I know. I'm tired and dealing with a lot right now."

"Fair enough. I'll do what I can to keep your personal business private, although I have to level with you. Gunther at the gym is the biggest gossip in town. That's why he got the job working the front desk in the first place. He's probably told people that you took his number."

"Figures. I always find a way to make things hard for myself."

"Trust me, I personally enjoy some attention, but even for me, it can be a bit much. The gayborhood has known me my entire life, and everyone's aware that I'm a diehard romantic." I gesture up to J.Lo, now in a designer dress and necklace combo, as though to prove my point. "You saw how it was walking down the street with me. They're as eager for me to fall in love as I am."

"Sounds miserable."

I laugh. "It's sweet. And sometimes suffocating. That's part of why I love it here."

Clay slightly rolls his eyes, but I think he's enjoying the conversation.

"What's that look?" I ask, teasing him a little.

"If I had an entire neighborhood waiting for me to fall in love, I'd be surrounded by a lot of disappointed people. What's the opposite of a romantic?"

"A pessimist."

He frowns. "That makes me sound like a dickhead."

I laugh warmly. "To be fair, you haven't come across like a dickhead since you drove your truck at me."

"I'm still disputing that." His brow is tight, but there's a shadow of a smile on his face, too.

I grin. "Okay, granted. A pessimist is not the opposite of a romantic. But I'm afraid I'm the one in the minority here. I'm turning thirty next month, and many men our age aren't interested in candlelit dinners or afternoon walks through the park. Hookups are easy to come by, but romance isn't."

Clay's hand goes back on his hammer. "See, you lost me again. Hookups are the only thing that I understand. Two people help each other out. Then I get my alone time."

"I'm not opposed to casual relationships. I do enjoy some noncommittal sex when I'm out of town, with people I won't have to see for the rest of my life. And will you look at that? You're standing here in your socks, and I'm babbling about my dating life. This is not how I planned to end the day today."

Clay looks down at his socks.

"Now that you've seen my toilet," I say, immediately second-guessing the word choice, "I should let you go." I reach out to touch his shoulder casually, but pull my hand back and gesture instead, reeling it in. "I'm sure you're ready for your dinner and plenty hungry after all that work."

Plenty hungry? Hell. Now I've lost it.

Clay nods. "Yeah, sure." He arches an eyebrow and looks at me before relenting. "Maybe I'll come by and start on the boxes tomorrow."

"Sure. The shop is closed on Sundays, but I'll be here in the afternoon if you need me."

Clay nods. "Sounds good." Without another word, he returns to his boots, which he efficiently ties up. "Have a good night, Nicholas," he adds before exiting out the back.

"You, too!" I call after him, and after the door clicks shut, I add his name.

"Clay."