Page 6 of Chicago Sin

“Mmm hmm. Cute, right?”

“Yeah, I guess you can’t complain about having your own private security team. And at least he wasn’t creepy about it. One dumbass yesterday bought flowers and then pulled out a rose and gave it to me. I was like, dude, if you’re going to ask for my number at least give me the whole bouquet.”

I snort. “Yeah, they’re players.” When I was in high school, I used to get all fluttery and nervous when the younger guys came in, thinking one might ask me out. I had this whole mafia-guy crush. They exuded confidence and power. They flashed their money, and they had swagger. I wasn’t naive enough to believe all the bluster, but it turned me on just the same. My secret fantasy.

But while they flirted up a storm with Mary Alice, they were only polite with me. I don’t know, maybe they don’t date Black women. Or maybe I was just a kid in their eyes and forever would be.

“Well, maybe not all of them, but at least half are players,” I amend.

Josie comes over and leans her elbows on the counter. Her gold hoop earrings swing. They’re giant—big enough to balance her poofy blonde curls.

Anxiety coils in the pit of my stomach as we get physically close to each other. It happens every time. Probably because I need to talk to her about her crappy work ethic but keep putting it off. I ignore the feeling, like always.

“Tell me you haven’t thought about taking one of them up on it. Not as a permanent thing but just to let him treat you to a nice dinner once in a while,” she says.

“Nah.”

“Uh huh.” Her tone implies disbelief.

“Okay, there was one, but he had a girlfriend. He never asked me out, but he charmed the socks off me every time he came in. And so good looking. He lectured me once when I was closing up about walking home alone at night and how it wasn’t safe. He insisted he escort me the couple of blocks. I found his protectiveness so freaking hot.”

“Which one?” Josie asks.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember his name,” I lie. I totally remember. Armando. Sexy smooth-talking Armando with that panty-melting smile.

But I was almost grateful he was engaged. Because as much as I crushed on him, I never, ever, want to date a mafia man. They cheat on their wives. They’re misogynists—they think women belong barefoot, home in the kitchen. They are dangerous. Extremely so. They commit crimes, they hurt people, even kill people. Yes, they are men, but there's a thick undertone of villain in every single one of them.

And Armando—he felt the most unsafe. Not like he’d hurt me physically.

But emotionally. I’d fall way too hard for a guy like him. It was good he disappeared.

“He doesn’t come in anymore. I haven’t seen him in a long time—like, years,” I tell Josie.

“Maybe he got whacked. You never know with these guys, right?”

I’m way too empathetic because that thought makes my stomach tighten up into a knot. I hardly knew the guy apart from selling him flowers for his fiancé every week. “Hope not. He seemed like he was going places.”

“Yep. Illegal places that landed him in Lake Michigan with cement shoes,” Josie jokes.

I refuse to entertain that idea. “Maybe he moved away. He and his girlfriend were engaged.” I know because he filled her apartment with every color of rose after she said yes. Mary Alice had to call for an extra shipment because he ordered so many.

“I’ll bet he’s dead. Or witness protection.” She shrugs and pushes an unfinished bouquet off to the side. “I’m going to take off, okay?”

My anxiety flutters again. It’s forty minutes until her shift ends. She hasn’t even finished what she was working on, and her work area is a mess. I definitely need the help in case a bunch of the guys next door stop in to buy bouquets before they go home.

Please, God, let there be a closing time rush.

I should tell her that, but instead, I bite back my sigh. I love her too much to create strife between us. I know—hiring a friend was a mistake. One I’m going to keep paying for if I don’t figure out pretty quickly how to be a boss bitch. But Josie got laid off from her dream job as an interior decorator apprentice, so I invited her to work here with me, thinking how fun it would be to run a business with my best friend at my side.

Except it’s not always fun. And lately, it’s more stressful when she’s around than when she’s not. It doesn’t take a psychotherapist to figure out that’s why I get anxious when she’s here. My subconscious wants me to clarify things with her, but my heart can’t stand the thought of alienating my best friend.

But that’s kind of the least of my worries about running this business at this point. And I may not even have a business past next month if things don’t turn around.

“Okay thanks.”

Ugh. Why am I thanking her? I’m paying her. And she’s leaving early.

Without asking.