He Loves Me Not (Bunch-A-Blooms 1)

She shook her head as they settled in for a visit. With the secret bared, her soul felt lighter.

***

Time had a way of getting away from her in the spring. With Valentine’s Day and her birthday fast on its heels, she ended up planning, working, and attending so much it was a struggle to keep her dates straight. She’d meant to talk to Mason, and yet here they were at the Precinct for a romantic date. The high-end Jeff Ruby owned steak house was situated in an old tri-tier police building. The stone building paid homage to its original roots with artwork and photos on the wall. But the stained-glass window, bar with the collection of older beer signs, high ceilings, and chandeliers stole the show. The pink lighting strategically placed elevated it all to an unforgettable experience with all one's senses. Their table was on the bottom level beside a window overlooking the street.

“This is amazing, Mas.”

“Do you like it?” he asked, almost nervously.

“Umm. Yes, who wouldn’t?”

He laughed. “I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer something a little less traditional.

“We have a good time no matter what we do. Never worry.” She covered his hand, and he relaxed.

“Yeah, fun was never our problem.”

“No, it was your cockamamie scheming.”

“You still holding onto that saint status?”

“Name one time I got us into trouble.”

He took a sip of his rum and cola and nodded. “All right. Ninth grade. When you decided to take down the mean girl. What was her name?”

“Sasha Rutherford.” She all but spat the name out of her mouth.

He snapped his fingers. “That’s the one.”

“I regret nothing.”

“I know, but I did when we had detention every Saturday for a month for leaving her locker full off hamburger meat … and that was with no real evidence it was us, other than a vendetta that would rival Batman and the Joker.”

“Hey, she was awful. She just happened to pick the wrong freshman to terrorize. Hah. We had her fresh meat. The bullying bastard.”

“Still bitter?”

“’Til I die.”

He smirked. “You never did explain where you got those lock picking skills.”

“The internet,” she mumbled.

He laughed. “And television for the avoidance of fingerprints?”

“Naturally,” she agreed.

“You’re too much, you know that?”

“And here I thought I was just enough,” she drawled like a southerner.

“You are for me.”

The sincerity in his tone put her at odds with herself. Every day she tried to gauge his thoughts and failed miserably.

“You are such a charmer,” she whispered.

“Never needed charm with you, Petunia. Not when I have truth.”