Love Arranged

All she needs to do is throw me a secretive smile from over her shoulder, and every previous reservation I had about taking this further disappears.

People don’t pay us much attention, either because they’re too busy hooking up or too distracted by their friends while they wait to use the restroom.

I have no idea where she is taking me, but we somehow end up outside. The emergency exit door slams shut behind us before she cages me against it.

Since when are you the type to relinquish control? The anxious voice bleeds into the moment, threatening to destroy it.

This isn’t you, my instincts scream.

Run now before it’s too late, the voice reminds me as Lily closes the gap between us until our chests touch.

There is a playful glint in her eyes as she slips her hand under my mask and teases my bottom lip with her thumb. A tingle erupts from a single pass, and before I think better of it, I nip at the pad of her thumb.

Her smile is captivating as she cups my chin and drops a kiss on my plastic mask, proving that she doesn’t even need to touch my lips to send a zap shooting down my spine.

At first, it is a pleasant tingle, but soon the sensation transforms into a full-blown paralyzing shock as I process how I want to rip my mask off and crush my mouth to hers, devouring her in a way that leaves her desperate for relief.

A relief I desperately need as well.

An image of her in my bed, wrapped up in my sheets, wearing nothing but my marks on her neck brings my fantasies to a screeching halt.

A fake relationship can’t work between two people who desire each other. Too many lines would be blurred, and every limit I’ve set would be challenged.

Maybe even destroyed.

So, no, I can’t pursue a real relationship. I don’t want to, even if I tricked myself into thinking it was a possibility for the last couple of months.

Not even with someone as incredible as Lily.

Especially not with her.

I’m about to put a stop to all this, but then she traces a path of kisses down the column of my throat, stealing my breath and the words right from my mouth.

Pathetic, the same voice returns, louder than before.

My hands find her hips, not to keep her at a distance like I originally intended, but to drag her closer.

She smiles against my pebbled skin. “Are you going to hide behind a mask all night, or are you going to finally show me who I’ve been dreaming of for two months?”

Fuck. Me.

Her body molds to mine as she wraps her arms around my neck, teasing the strap keeping my mask in place. “Because as much as I’d love to explore this new mask kink of mine, I have a different idea about how I want tonight to go for us.”

“Like?”

“I’d rather show you.” Her eyes are so bright, so full of hope as she lifts my mask up. I don’t have a chance to stop her, or maybe I didn’t make enough effort to as Lily finally comes face-to-face with Laurence.

Her eyes widen, and her lips part with a gasp.

“Lo—”

I crush my mouth to hers.

One kiss to remember her by, I promise myself, embracing the rush of energy coursing through my body as she single-handedly ruins every future kiss for me.

She might as well be my first and my last because no one from my past compares, and there won’t be a single person who ever will.

It’s the least I deserve for the pain I’m about to cause her. Because the man she has spent months dreaming of… The one she wants for a thirty-year plan… I’m not him.

I hope you never forgive me for hurting you, I think to myself when she returns my kiss with equal enthusiasm. She tastes of passion fruit and sweet temptation, a forbidden combination that I could become addicted to.

I hope you find every reason to hate me and hold on to it, I silently add as I slide my hands through her hair and tilt her head back so I can better plunder her mouth.

And I hope that one day, I’ll stop hating myself for letting you go.

When I break away, I know it won’t be possible because I don’t just hate myself.

I despise the weak person I am and the anxiety I struggle with. The same anxiety that demands for me to push Lily away, not because she deserves better, but because I won’t be better.

I don’t know how. Don’t want to figure it out either, in part because I’m scared. I’m selfish. I’m too damn focused on my goal to get distracted by some fantasy that was never mine.

I gently spin Lily around so she has her back to the door before I release my hold on her waist and take a step away.

And another.

My third is smaller thanks to the crushed look on her face, but I manage a fourth and a fifth without tripping.

“Where are you going?” Her voice gives her distress away, making my stomach churn.

“This was a terrible idea.” I keep my tone flat. Emotionless. No room for misinterpretation about where I stand on the asshole spectrum.

“What?”

“You. Me… We were a mistake.”

She flinches, adding to the dark cloud of hatred following me everywhere I go.

A feeling of self-loathing that I’m all too familiar with, and one that will eat away at me until all I’m left with are a bunch of regrets, but none as big as this one.

I can feel it from the very first step I take.

ANA

Are we going to talk about last night?

ANA

Or the fact that you’re Lorenzo fucking Vittori?

Laurence is offline

ANA

Don’t be an asshole. Talk to me.

Ana is offline

ANA

Seriously? You’re going to keep reading my messages and ignoring me after talking to each other every single day?

Laurence is offline

ANA

Are you pushing me away because of Julian and Rafa? They’re overbearing at times but completely harmless. Trust me. They stopped getting involved in my love life long ago.

Ana is offline

ANA

I could pull you aside in public and force you to talk to me about all this, but I’m afraid of what you might say. I hate to admit it, but it’s true.

Ana is offline

ANA

When you saw me at the animal shelter and acted like you’d never met me before in front of the volunteer team, it felt like you took my heart and smashed it into a thousand pieces to match yours.

ANA

If you want to pretend we’re strangers, fine. I’ll be sure to do the same.

Ana is offline

Ana is offline

Ana is offline

ANA

It’s been a while since I sent a message, but I’m a little drunk.

ANA

By a little, I mean wastedddd.

ANA

Sloshed. Hammered. Borracha.

Ana is offline

ANA

My sister tried to take my phone away but I’m back and here to say I miss you.

ANA

I just…

Ana is offline

ANA

My phone died. Whoo0pps.

ANA

I didn’t want to pretend anymore. Just like I don’t want to pretend now. I don’t care if you’re Lorenzo or Laurence. I like you despite all the reasons I shouldn’t, and it makes me hate myself.

Ana is offline

ANA

Well, talk about embarrassing, but not nearly as bad as how I looked when you walked into my shop and asked me to make you a bouquet for another woman.

ANA

I finally realized that I was a challenge rather than the endgame.

Ana has deactivated her account

CHAPTER ONE

Lily

With an unbelievable amount of self-restraint, I resist turning the shocking letter I read into paper confetti. Instead, I toss it inside my thrifted shoulder bag and lock my office.

On my way to the sales floor, I pass by my mom’s empty office. Her door is shut—a more frequent occurrence since her doctor said she needed to take it easy because of her high blood pressure—and the plastic box nailed beside the white door is full of a few days’ worth of mail.

I spot the matching envelope to the one I received with the town’s crest on the upper left-hand corner. My vivid imagination gets the best of me, and I’m overwhelmed by images of my mom reading the notice tomorrow before she opens the flower shop for the day.

I can picture her breaking down when she learns how a condemnation act works. She’d spiral once she figures out that local governments are allowed to buy properties regardless if someone wants to sell or not, so long as there is appropriate, fair market compensation.

My mom and dad poured everything into turning this shop into their legacy, and I’ll fight anyone, including our small-town city council, who thinks they can buy out a few small businesses because of some antiquated amendment and turn them into fancy new storefronts.

Not wanting to second-guess my decision, I steal my mom’s letter and throw it inside my purse. It’s heavy from the weight of my rash choice, but I’d rather be the one to deliver the bad news.

Ditching the scene of my crime, I push on the swinging door that separates the offices, break room, and storage area from the sales floor. I’m hit with the fresh scent of flowers first, followed by the sound of soft music streaming from the hidden portable speakers.

The comfort I always feel whenever I walk into Rose & Thorn is quickly replaced by an emotional gut punch as I take in everything I stand to lose. My eyes well with tears as my watery gaze wanders around the small shop bursting with different roses, carnations, and other popular summer blooms.

The pristine shop is kept organized, allowing customers to navigate the endless amounts of color-coded buckets full of flowers and foliage so they can easily create their perfect custom bouquet—a Rose & Thorn experience I suggested five years ago—along with description cards placed in front of each bucket describing the name, origin, and possible meanings.

Our newest Rose & Thorn employee, Jane, picks the perfect time to look up from the flowers she’s rearranging at the front of the store. She is a sweet, young woman who moved here from Lake Aurora, a neighboring town that’s only a thirty-minute drive away.

“Everything okay?” Her brows knit together with worry.

I quickly smooth out my sour expression. “Yup. Got some mail from the IRS.”

Even if I wanted to tell Jane about the letter, I shouldn’t. Given the notice’s emphasis on discretion, I’d only anger the people who control our shop’s fate.

As a sign of good faith—I use the term loosely—the Ludlow family is willing to offer a hush-money check in exchange for a signed NDA. It is meant to be a bonus that encourages people to stay quiet until January when the forced sale is finalized and announced to the town.

Assholes.

Jane’s nose twitches. “I’d suggest shredding the envelope and pretending you never got it, but I believe that’s a crime.”

I laugh, but it rings a bit hollow. “Don’t tempt me.”

She brushes a hand down her Rose & Thorn embroidered apron. “I won’t tell on you if anyone comes knocking.”

“Your loyalty is appreciated.”

She returns to fixing the flowers while I stare out the window at Lavender Lane, which is ground zero for the city council’s reconstruction project.

The sun is slowly setting outside, casting our run-down street in a golden glow. It might not be the nicest, most popular part of the Historic District, but at this time of day, the hues of pink and orange make our humble little side street look like the most beautiful part of town.

“Are you sure you’re good with locking up later?” I ask, only to delay my departure.

Jane offers me another reassuring smile. “Absolutely. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve got everything covered.”

I get going, but instead of heading to my car right away, I pause outside the store to take it all in.

While the other four storefronts need a serious makeover, Rose & Thorn stands out with its pink-painted bricks and striped awnings. My dad installed the window coverings himself, and it was one of many improvement projects he worked on in the store.

This season’s window display, which took me eight days to assemble, might be my favorite one yet. The melting ice-cream cones are made completely out of flowers, and they’ve been an absolute hit since I unveiled them last week, driving up foot traffic, sales numbers, and social media buzz.

My plan of having Visit Rose & Thorn on everyone’s Michigan bucket list is slowly coming together, and I’ll be damned if the city council thinks they can shut our doors for good.

Ignoring the ache in my chest, I turn away from the window and walk to my parked car located across the street. It’s stuffy inside thanks to the faded upholstery and constant exposure to the hot June sun, but it’s nothing that blasting the AC can’t fix.

I plug my key into the ignition and turn it, only for my heart to drop at the telltale clicking sound.

“No.” I groan while turning the key again.

The dead battery doesn’t respond to my second or third try, so I spend the next few minutes researching tips and tricks. By my fifth failed attempt, I give up on Google and pop the hood open.

My long, dark hair sticks to the back of my neck as I check out the engine. I’m not sure why I bother since I know next to nothing about cars, but I at least need to try to diagnose the issue before I text the family group chat asking for help.

I shoot daggers at the engine until the sound of shoes clapping against the sidewalk steals my attention. I’m about to wave the person down, only to stop when I find a pair of dark brown eyes already focused on me.

If eyes are the window to the soul, Lorenzo Vittori must lack one, because his blank stare gives absolutely nothing away. It remains emotionless as his eyes ever so slowly rove down my body—a reaction he can’t seem to help whenever I’m around.

Today’s outfit is bland at best, like most of my neutral colors lately. Ditching my bright clothes didn’t happen overnight, but rather it felt like I slowly turned the saturation down in my life.

Fashion is my favorite form of self-expression, and lately I want to keep that part of myself hidden away. I’m not sure for how long, but at least until I stop worrying that I’m too much.

After being vulnerable with one too many assholes, I’m done wearing my heart on my sleeve—both literally and figuratively.

My choice to dim my personality isn’t a confidence issue.

It’s a trust one.

If a man wants to get to know me, he needs to work for it. Then, once they earn my trust, I’ll whip out the pastel dresses, crochet tops in every color yarn, and my custom-painted sneakers with satin ribbons for laces.

Like usual, I expect Lorenzo to carry on with his day without acknowledging my existence, but I’m surprised when he heads directly toward me.

Something in my chest flutters, and I swear to God I’ve never hated the sensation more. Swooning over Laurence was one thing, but feeling lightheaded in his alter ego’s presence?

“Need some help?” he asks, the deep timbre in his voice sending a vibration rolling through my body.

“Nope.” I lean over and start fiddling with a cap of some sort.

He stops beside me, standing close enough for me to see the one tiny speck of dirt on his shoe.

How out of character for the perfectionist.

“I haven’t given it a try myself, but maybe if you turn that cap the wrong way long enough, it’ll finally come off,” he says, his amused tone grating on my fraying nerves.

My composure slips at the stupid smirk on his face, and my irritation flares. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

He checks his fancy platinum watch, which must be worth more than my monthly salary. “Not yet.”

A rarity coming from the man who is busy juggling a mayoral campaign and his small but growing venture-capitalist portfolio.

His gaze dips. “You’ve got a stain on your pants.”

I take a jump back with a gasp, the muscles in my neck spasming from how quickly I look down to assess the white linen material. “Where?”

He effectively slips through the gap and starts tinkering around underneath my hood. I never allow my stare to linger on him, but today I’m taken aback by his nearness.

Laurence—or should I say Lorenzo—once told me he liked cars, but I didn’t know he could repair them.

His dark hair falls in front of his eyes as he leans over to see something, and I’m tempted to comb it back.

Have you learned nothing?

I blame my lack of impulse control on his proximity. It’s disarming, being this close to him after months of avoiding each other, so my head is a mess.

I try to refocus on his actions. The ease in which he twists knobs and assesses engine parts with his phone’s flashlight distracts me temporarily, only for me to become entranced by how his bespoke suit bunches up around his muscles when he bends over to get a better look at something.

The view of his backside…I swear the man’s physique could’ve inspired Renaissance sculptors with a body like his.

His voice startles me, but it’s his narrowed eyes that make me want to die of humiliation.

Shit. My face turns hot.

What did he say?

When I don’t reply fast enough, Lorenzo raises a single brow. “When’s the last time you got an oil change?”

Oh.

I’m quick to look down at the metal stick in his hands. “Uh…let me see.”

I take the opportunity to add some distance and get a hold of myself. It’s a valiant effort that’s ruined when I accidentally brush against his back with my shoulder, sending sparks down my arm.

He bristles at the contact, adding to my embarrassment as I dart around him to check the sticker on my windshield.

I climb back out of the car with the grace of a newborn foal. “Looks like I went in May.”

“Of this year?”

I shake my head. “Last.”

“I guessed as much.” His lips, which look deceptively firm, mash together, and I’m reminded of what it felt to have his mouth pressed to mine.

The way my body tingled as soon as we touched.

I’m overwhelmed with an urge to flee him and the memory, but then he beckons me closer with a quick flick of his hand. “Come take a look.”

With shaky legs, I step forward until I’m close enough to smell the crisp, clean scent of his cologne. I’m a glutton for punishment, so I take another sniff because why the hell not? It’s not like things can get any more awkward between us.

“See this?” He holds up the stick with tiny markings.

Even with contacts, I need to squint to read it. “What am I looking at?”

He points at one line with an F. “This is where your oil should be.” His finger travels down the stick until it nearly reaches the end. “And this is where it is now.”

“I’m guessing that’s not great.”

“Unless your goal is to kill your engine, no. It’s not.”

I look up at the sky and pray for patience when Lorenzo shifts the stick so I can get a better look.

“See how it’s dark?” he asks.

“A bit hard to miss.” The bead of oil at the end of the stick is nearly the same shade as his eyes, hair, and today’s suit. He skipped out on wearing a tie, but I imagine it would match his doom-and-gloom aesthetic.

“That means you need to get it changed, along with your serpentine belt, which looks like shit, by the way.”

“I knew you loved collecting cars, but I had no idea you knew how to fix them too.” The comment slips out. Typically I pretend we hardly know each other, especially around my family, but I forgot myself.

He puts the metal stick back where it belongs before he stands to his full height and assesses his stained hands. “Do you have a rag or something?”

I pluck his fancy pocket square from his jacket and hand it over. “This looks like it could work.”

He grabs it with a fake smile. I ignore the way the tips of my fingers tingle when his brush against mine, just like I ignore the small jolt in my chest when he stares at his hand too.

He wipes engine grease from his well-manicured fingers and tosses the stained silk square into the trash bin next to us before asking, “When’s the last time you changed the battery?”

“Recently.”

“Are we talking in the current decade?” His smile grows, along with the pain in my chest. Countless times I’ve seen Vote Vittori lawn signs, street banners, and local television ads promoting his mayoral campaign, so I should be used to it.

My gaze drops to his mouth before I look back at the engine. “I’m going to grab my phone and call the mechanic. He can come out and take a look.”

“The shop’s closed already.”

“Great,” I mumble to myself.

He shuts my hood. “I can give you a ride home.”

“I’d rather walk.”

“In the middle of a heat wave?”

I give his suit a quick pass. “I don’t see you struggling.”

“This is nothing compared to Vegas.”

“Huh. And here I thought you spent the last two decades in hell.”

“Sure felt like it sometimes.” His light tone doesn’t match the dark, intriguing look in his eyes.

“Hm,” I reply while chanting we don’t care enough about him to ask what he means in my head.

“Do you want a ride or not?” He pulls out his key ring from the interior pocket of his jacket. “I don’t have a lot of time before my next meeting.”

I stare at him without saying anything.

“I’ll even call Manny on the way and ask him to come here first thing tomorrow morning.”

My brows rise. “I wasn’t aware that you’re on a first-name basis with the town’s mechanic.”

“He didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“Aw. Look at you making a friend. Should I warn him about what happens when anyone gets too close?”

“You and I were never friends.”

A sharp pain shoots through my chest. “Great. Since you cleared up that misunderstanding, you’ll understand why I don’t accept rides from strangers.” I curse to myself, knowing I revealed way, way too much about how hurt I am.

Feeling both embarrassed and annoyed at myself, I reach inside my car and grab my purse from the passenger seat. The white envelope peeking out makes my bad mood even worse, so I need to get out of here before I say or do something I’ll regret.

“Thanks for the help.” I lock up my car without looking at him.

“You hate me that much?” he says, low enough for no one around to hear us.

I start walking in the opposite direction without replying.

I don’t look back because I’m too afraid of my eyes revealing the answer to his question.

CHAPTER TWO

Lorenzo

Like clockwork, I stop by Rose & Thorn every week to pick up my two bouquets. The task has become an essential part of my routine and, frankly, something I’ve looked forward to since I moved to Lake Wisteria almost two years ago. My schedule of campaigning and never-ending meetings can be taxing at times, but something about the floral shop located in the town’s quiet Historic District and the carefree florist who runs it breaks up the monotony of my life.

The same florist who chose a grueling, thirty-minute walk in the middle of a heat wave over my offer to drive her home.