Jobs (18+) | a series of One-shots ^^ On-going, never-ending ^^

Act 3 - The Florist

Act 3 – The Florist

I’ve always loved flowers. I just didn’t expect that I was a flower too. And it’s all thanks to you two, my Armando and Ricardo.

~ Flora Heist

“You should let your hair down sometimes,” teased Ricardo, pulling a lock of hair that was peeking from underneath my tomboy hat. I sucked air through my teeth to show my irritation.

I brushed his hand away and shot a cold stare, “Why don’t you grow your own hair and let it down,” I mildly exasperated, tucking the stray wisp of hair back inside my skull cap, “And you…” I pointed my gardening shears to Armando, “…stop flirting with just about anything with a pulse. It’s just … disgusting.”

Armando’s lips pulled into a mischievous smile, “Aw, our little Flora’s jelly. You know you’re the only girl for us,” he sidled close to me and pulled me to his body for a hug, causing my flower arrangement to look like shít.

I rolled my eyes, “Let go perv,” I pushed him away and gave his cheek a light slap. His smile pulled up even higher as his eyes turned wayward and dark. I rolled my eyes for the millionth time while dismissing them with my hands. The three of us needed to make our delivery, or else we’d be breaking our savings in the bank.

These two locos are like my childhood best friends. I was born in Italy but grew up in the South of France, then decided to fly to America to pursue my dream of becoming a wedding planner. But that didn’t happen so I ended up arranging flowers, “Are we even confident about all this? Ms. Meicker is a tough client to please,” I said.

Armando scoffed, “Who does she think she is anyway? Just cause she married this city’s mayor doesn’t give her the right to be a megabitch,” he remarked, stuffing peonies into his flower arrangement. His tone shifted from cold to warm, “Ever think of getting married yourself, Flora?” was his question, laced with an undertone of concern.

“Marriage is not for me,” I replied, pushing an exhale out of my body to somehow relieve myself of the sadness that came with those words, “I don’t believe in love,” I was convincing myself.

Ricardo threw an arm over my shoulder, “You’ll always have us, Florie girl. You’ll always have your putos,” he gave me a quick peck on the cheek. Ew. Yuck.

I wiped his drool from my cheek, “This is a professional working environment. No sharing of saliva. You boys are so disgusting,” I rolled my eyes again.

These two guys treated me like I was one of them because I shared their wardrobe. Every day the three of us wore loose white shirts tucked into denim jumpers, and manly loafers offering remedial comfort to the soles of our feet. And to ‘cap’ it all off, I wore their baseball caps, making me look like a tomboy, “Ricky, do a trim on that one right there,” I pointed to a vase with peonies, “It’s too much green. You need to show more the flowers I think,” I instructed.

He gave me a mock salute which I rewarded with an eye-roll. Anyway, we were florists, and probably the best in town. There was never shortage of business in this city where people always celebrated something phenomenal. Whether it was for a wedding, a debutant ball, or an engagement party, there was always something to throw a celebration for, “Flora,” Armando called my attention, pointing to his work. I nodded my approval. He smiled, proud of his work.

By their names one could already tell that they were of Mexican descent. Armando’s taller than Ricardo, but Ricardo had a fleshier build. They both have jet black hair, but I like Armando’s much better. His had this clipped and polished feel to it that makes him look like that sexy wolf guy Michael Trevino from the Vampire Diaries. As for Ricardo, he looked like William Levy, that sexy Cuban actor in soap operas and telenovelas, though more gruff with his strong jaw line covered with a dense five o’clock shadow, and his sexy tousled hair more richer and darker.