I mutter, staring at the florist’s sign. The windows are packed with different flower arrangements, from pastel colors to bright colors, from small bouquets to large, fancy baskets. “What kind of florist opens on a Sunday?” “The kind of florist who wants my cousin’s wedding under their belt,” Tyler replies. “I was told to come here so you can help her decide flowers. Then we’ll have lunch.” “I can help her decide? I’m sorry, but I’m starting to wonder if it’s me or Aaron marrying Dayton!” “Have you ever seen a guy pick flowers?” “No, but if I keep having to plan his wedding, he’ll be picking flowers out of his asshole.” I shrug off his jacket and storm from the car, spotting Aaron and Dayton inside. Tyler grabs my hand and tugs me back. “Calm down, feisty. Aaron would likely fuck this crap up. Shit, I don’t know the difference between a daisy and a fucking rose.” I snatch my hand back and glare at him. “Feisty? You think this is feisty? Do you want a bunch of flowers up your behind, too?”
