Read Online A Bouquet of Love by Janice Thompson - Free Book Online

grin on my father’s face, I knew he was up to something more.
    â€œWe will put those Rossis in their place.” Babbas rubbed his hands together. “Wait and see.”
    Ack. The Rossis. I still needed to let Babbas know about my new job at the flower shop. Marcella would be waiting on me tomorrow morning, after all. Maybe I could tell him without mentioning the Rossi connection. Sure. He didn’t have to know that part.
    After releasing a cleansing breath, I dove right in. “Babbas, working with family has been so much fun. But you know how much I love to design flower bouquets—”
    â€œFlowers.” He snapped his fingers. “Excellent idea. You should wear a flower wreath in your hair when the commercial is filmed. All of the girls should. Oh, and your dresses—they must be traditional. Yia Yia can make them.” He clasped his hands together and his eyes appeared to glaze over. “We will all look so . . . Greek!”
    I didn’t mean to groan aloud but must’ve done it involuntarily. Not that it stopped him. Oh no. On and on he went, ideas flowing as freely as the honey my mother had poured over the sumptuous baklava.
    By the time the conversation ended, Babbas had pretty much planned out my future. Apparently it included several thrilling commercial appearances with me dressed as a young Greek virgin. Terrific. Now I just needed to figure out a way to balance my career as a jingle writer with my job at Super-Gyros. Oh, and my new position at Patti-Lou’s Petals. I couldn’t forget about that.
    Or maybe, just maybe, I’d better forget about that last one. And while I was at it, I’d forget about the ache that consumed my heart every time I thought about giving up on my childhood dream of working with flowers. Surely it would never come to pass now.
    One thing remained clear—I couldn’t do anything to stress out my father right now, not with Super-Gyros opening in two days. Our family’s survival depended on keeping him in good spirits.
    And so, with a smile plastered on my face, I rose and sang that goofy little jingle all the way into my room, where I climbed into bed fully dressed and pulled the covers over my head.

6 By Myself
    You might be Greek if you’re 5 ′ 4 ″ , can bench-press 325 pounds, and shave twice a day, but you still cry when your mother yells at you.
    B y Friday morning we nearly had the new shop ready for the following day’s grand opening. Never mind the fact that my father flaunted our write-up in the local paper every chance he got and littered the island with flyers. Most of the passersby seemed genuinely interested. Many even promised to come by when the shop opened for business, especially those with the coupons for free gyros.
    Midmorning on Friday Babbas prepped the fire to roast the lamb. Perfect opportunity for a getaway. He didn’t even seem to notice I’d left. Then again, he rarely noticed anythingonce he got busy doing what he loved to do. When a Greek father babied his lamb, the rest of the family could do as they pleased. My sisters headed off to the beauty shop, and I bought myself a few precious hours working at the florist shop while Babbas tended to the meat.
    I jogged the length of the Strand, past the luscious smell coming from Parma John’s, to Patti-Lou’s Petals a few blocks down. The bell on the door jangled as I walked inside, and Marcella looked my way and clasped her hands together. “Oh, good! You’re back.”
    â€œI’m back.” A whiff of the fragrant flowers made me forget all about the lamb I’d been craving.
    â€œI’m just so thrilled you’re here.” Marcella rushed from one side of the shop to the other. “After you left the other day, I got on my knees and thanked God.”
    â€œThanked God that I left, you mean?”
    She giggled and tossed me an apron. “No, silly. Thanked God you’d come in the