My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

And I’d promised to always treat the flowers I acquire with the proper respect and honor they deserve while showcasing their beauty for people to enjoy.

That’s why I started SweetPea Boutique, as a way to do just that. And I’m good. That’s not a humble brag because there’s no sense in being modest. I’m not a florist who throws together a dozen red roses in a plastic wrap and calls it a day. No, we create art here. We do the best weddings, the top company affairs, and serve people who want quirky, unique, custom designs.

My little shop, which is lime green with big, bold pink bubble letters and a black- and white-striped awning, is filled with lush earthen smells, flowers you can’t get anywhere else in the state, and handmade vases and ribbons of every size and color.

A lot of people don’t get it. I could get by quite easily on my last name alone. I could’ve gone into the family business and worked side-by-side with my dad and Courtney, wearing Prada power suits and sky-high Jimmy Choo heels to board meetings where we toss around ROI and billion-dollar profit margins like they’re no big deal.

But I’ve always been different, marched to the beat of my own drummer, or so I’ve been told. I wiggle my bare toes in my comfortable and sensibly waterproof Crocs, sure that’s probably the case.

But I am who I am, with no interest in changing anything.

Dad worried, of course. It’s who he is. He’d tried to talk me into following in his footsteps, and in a way, I had . . . by starting my own business from the ground up. Once he’d seen I had a business plan, including an accelerated payoff schedule for the loans I needed to take out, he’d understood and been proud of me.

The last few years have only solidified that. Especially when I paid those loans off.

SweetPea Boutique is mine now. All mine.

I can’t believe it, but it’s true. All because of floral arrangements like the one in my hand, but there’s no rest for the wicked, and I won’t sit around on my laurels. No, I always want to do better, be more.

Triumphant, I hold up the bouquet. “What do ya think?” I ask Janey, my right-hand woman. She’s been with me since day one and is an amazing floral designer in her own right, but thankfully, she has no desire to do the business side of the business. She’s happy to create and keep me from going insane with our workload.

From her workstation, a stainless-steel prep table where she has orchids and pink ginger lilies trimmed and ready to arrange, she turns a critical eye to the bouquet. I watch her face, looking for any telltale signs that something’s wrong.

Janey’s short, bleached white-blonde hair is pushed back behind a rhinestone headband, leaving her brown eyes exposed. They scan left and right, then around, up, and down, leaving no bud unexamined. She lifts one shoulder, tilting her head as she frowns. “Meh. It’s fine.”

I blink, my eyes jumping to the bouquet. “What? It’s gorgeous!” An instant later, I ask, “What’s wrong with it?”

Her smile blooms quickly, bright and white. “Gotcha! It’s gorgeous. Claire will love it.”

She might’ve been kidding, but now, I’m looking the bouquet over again with second thoughts. “Maybe I’ll add a few Swarovski crystals?”

Janey laughs, but when I don’t laugh along, she sighs. “I was just fucking with you, Abs. Here, how’s this instead?”

She opens her eyes wide, her hands covering her open mouth as she gasps sharply. “Oh. My. God. It’s gor-ge-ous. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. You are an artiste!” She adds a polite golf clap and then her drawn-on brows lift sardonically, her overdramatized reaction turning to snark. “Is that what you were looking for?”

I shove at her shoulder with a smile. “Bitch.” There’s zero heat to the word, and she merely laughs in response.

“Seriously, it’s great. It’s exactly what Claire asked for, only better because it’s got that Abi touch.” She mimes sprinkling glitter around the flowers.

Ooh, that’s an idea . . . maybe I could spritz floral glitter over the bouquet? I eye it, considering.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. The only thing you’re doing with it is putting it in the fridge to wait for the wedding planner to get here.” She points a warning finger my way. I’m the boss, but she’s bossy, and I would never risk pissing her off because she’s a force in the way a tornado is a little wind. Aggressive, fierce, and destructive if challenged.

So I put the bouquet in the cooler as instructed. “Happy?”

“Exceedingly.” She beams at having gotten her way. Again.

“As long as Claire’s happy, that’s all that matters.”

Claire Johnson, my biggest client to date, is a wealthy Instagram influencer-slash-self-motivation coach. She’s what my dad would call new money, like us, really. Someone who’s worked their way up from the ground floor, capitalizing on a niche she carved out for herself. Alternatively, she’s marrying old money. Her fiancé, Cole Kennedy—not those Kennedys, but close enough—comes from generations of millionaires and has a trust fund the size of a small country’s annual gross domestic product.