A Bouquet of Love by Janice Thompson

Alex . . .” Marcella and I spoke in unison as we leaned in close to get a better look.
    â€œThey’re beautiful,” I added.
    â€œGlad you agree.” The warmth of his smile echoed in his voice. “My dad is sure this one’s going to be our biggest seller. And based on what you just said, I’m going to tell my dad we should call them . . . brace yourselves . . .” He looked at me. “The Cassia.”
    â€œNo way.” Was he teasing me? Judging from the serious look in his eyes, no.
    â€œI think it’s a great idea.” He put the bucket down and flexed his upper arms. “Impulsive decision based on our last conversation. Hope you don’t mind. That whole story about waiting for them to open up was great. Seems like we’ve been waiting for this new line to bloom for ages.” He pulled one from the bucket and passed it my way. “What do you think?”
    â€œI love it.”
    â€œGreat. Just wanted your stamp of approval before making the name official. There are over one hundred species of roses.” His fingers swept over mine as he touched the rose inmy hand. “I thought you might get a kick out of knowing you’re now one of them.”
    â€œI’m so flattered.” Really, flattered hardly described the feelings going on inside my heart right now. Zing-zing-zing! I breathed in the luscious scent of the gorgeous red bloom and sighed. “I just can’t believe you would do this. You hardly know me.”
    â€œOh, I know you, all right.” He gave me a little wink. “You’re a rose, remember? I can tell you anything you want to know about yourself, just based on that.”
    â€œRight, right.” I hardly knew what else to say. In our family, things—and people—got named with ABCs for convenience’s sake. No one took the time to focus on one person’s name like this. To give it special meaning. I didn’t know how to take such a grandiose gesture.
    And how timely that Marcella and Alex had both made a point to tell me how much my love of flowers meant to them. It felt really good to have someone—in this case, a couple of someones—notice and even care about my interests. I certainly didn’t get that sort of admiration at home. Not over flowers, anyway. Jingles, sure. Roses, not so much.
    Alex continued to share his father’s vision for the new Cassia line as he came and went from the shop, lugging in bucket after bucket. The reds had blown me away, of course, but those pinks! And the yellows. I could hardly believe the vibrant colors.
    â€œThese yellows are my mom’s favorites,” he said. “But then again they would be. She’s a Texas girl through and through.”
    â€œTexas girl?”
    â€œSure.” He nodded. “You’re a Texas girl now too. All Texas gals love yellow roses, right, Marcella?”
    â€œYep.” Marcella nodded.
    None of this was making sense to me.
    â€œMama’s from Splendora,” Alex said, “so she’s always been partial to the Yellow Rose of Texas.” His eyes narrowed. “You know that story, right?”
    â€œNot really.” I shrugged, still distracted by the beautiful roses.
    â€œStarted right here in Galveston and involved a beautiful young woman named Emily who was kidnapped by Mexican forces while they ravaged the island.”
    Marcella shivered. “Such an awful story.”
    Alex leaned forward and spoke in hushed tones. Not sure why, since our only customer was on the opposite side of the shop. “According to folklore, Emily, um, distracted General Santa Anna and he let his guard down. This led to the Texans winning the fight.”
    He’d no sooner said the word Texans than an incoming customer started talking about the Texans—not the ones in the Battle of San Jacinto, but the football team. Turned out their victories were a bit more interesting to