'Til Grits Do Us Part by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

sounding not quite ready to hang up. “Listen, I’m so sorry I can’t meet you tonight, Shiloh, on your birthday. I hate that you have to wait. But I’m a trainee, so I can’t choose my own hours like I used to.”
    â€œDon’t worry. Friday’s fine.” I winced, remembering when Adam had hired his own contractors and signed their paychecks. “We can meet at the park if it’s not raining.”
    â€œSounds great. I’ll bring your flowers.”
    I leaned back in the chair, not quite ready to say good-bye either. “Okay. And thanks for the arrangement you bought me.”
    â€œOh, I didn’t buy this one. I made it. With some of my leftover bulbs and things. I hope you like it.”
    â€œI’ll love it.” My throat tightened a little as I thought of him there in his hulking delivery truck, hauling boxes instead of kneeling over green saplings, his fingers dirty with fragrant Virginia soil. “Do you miss being a landscaper, Adam?”
    The line weighed silent a moment, and I heard a car whiz by Adam’s truck. “A little,” he said finally, the line crackling around the edges. “But not as much as I like being able to marry you.”
    I told Adam good-bye, put my head down on the cool desk, and scrunched my eyes closed. Because it was, after all, my fault he’d sold his business. My fault he now wore brown polyester and stacked packages instead of setting his own hours.
    But now wasn’t the time for sentiment. I had a dragon to vanquish. A dragon with a Spanish accent.
    â€œLet’s see what you’ve got to say, eh, Carlos?” I dialed and held the receiver a little away from my ear, as if his gorgeous Argentinian good looks and sultry voice might zap me into hypnosis even over the phone line. Not that he could pull me away from Adam. But Carlos’s brilliant, beautiful smile reeled in women the way Tim reeled in trout—by the bucket load.
    At least I’d managed to unhook myself from his line before it was too late.
    The phone clicked as someone picked up. “Hi, Carlos?” I said.
    â€œHi?” demanded a female voice in a decidedly suspicious tone. “Who’s calling?”
    I ignored her challenge and raised my voice. “Could I speak to Carlos, please?”
    Silence. “Hold on.” And then again, defensive and demanding: “Who is this?”
    â€œLook, should I call back later?” I tapped my pen. “I’m kind of busy here, and Carlos definitely needs to hear what I have to say. So please put him on the line.”
    I heard muted words, the staticky sound of the muffled receiver, and Carlos’s angry voice came crisp and clear: “
Moshi moshi
? Hello? Who’s calling?”
    â€œThis is Shiloh.” I tapped my fingers on the desk, trying to sort out my words. “Sorry to bother whatever you’re…uh…doing.” I smirked. “But we need to talk. Who’s that, by the way? Mia Robinson again? Wow, so soon after coming here and flashing your ring at me. I should be surprised, but I’m not.”
    â€œWhy are you calling me?” he growled. Not bothering to cap his sentence with the customary
amor
’s and
princesa
’s I knew so well from our brief engagement.
    â€œBecause I’m getting married in August. And if these flowers are from you, no thanks.”
    â€œWhy would I send you flowers, Shiloh? You mean nothing to me.”
    The last words hit me with a punch I didn’t expect, but I righted myself like a stumbling tango dancer, a thorny rose between my teeth. “That’s not what you said a few months ago,” I muttered, jabbing him with the stem. “But the feeling is mutual, Carlos.” His words suddenly registered. “Wait—you didn’t send me a bouquet?”
    â€œOf course not. I have nothing to say to you.”
    â€œRight. After I refused to let you freeload off me. I