in which clarke is allergic to the flowers in the shop below her apartment and is forced to resort to desperate measures, even if it means dealing with the surly owner
I kind of played around with it, because the idea was too much fun to resist.
Clarke loved flowers, she really does.
Bouquets are some of her favorite gestures and she inherited her father’s talent of making things grow. She has a miniature herb garden on her window sill, tiny pots of basil and thyme and rosemary. She adds them to her recipes when she cooks. She’s never met a plant she didn’t like.
Living above a flower shop seemed like such a great idea at the time. Inexpensive, conveniently located near her hospital, lovely flowers every day. What was not to like?
Until the day she started having a sneezing fit every time she walked through shop to get to her apartment. She’s not sure what it is, but it’s starting to get really inconvenient.
The only sensible solution is, as far as she can tell, to go through the flowers and find which ones are causing the reaction.
If the pretty dark-haired girl with the quick and friendly smile were on clerk duty, she’d do it.
But the guy with the perpetually surly scowl is almost always behind the register and quite frankly, Clarke didn’t understand how they get any customers with him glowering at everyone who comes in. She wasn’t entirely sure how he got the job—wouldn’t being around flowers everyday make someone happy?—but it’s not her shop, after all. So she slipped in after her shifts and tried to surreptitiously smell the bouquets and find out what, exactly, is the problem.
This grand plan lasts exactly all of two days before the dark-haired guy asked from behind her irritably, “Are you going to actually buy some flowers or what?”
Clarke jumps a mile and sneezed.
It wasn’t a socially acceptable sneeze either, it was the kind that made her whole body convulse. Once she’s righted herself and more or less presentable, the clerk is looking at her like she’s lost her mind.
Like you’ve never had an allergic reaction, she thought resentfully.
“I think I’m allergic—” she started to say, but another violent sneeze overtook her. The clerk decided it was time to back away slowly from the crazy sneezing girl. Once he was almost completely out of the aisle, the sneezing stopped.
She blinked several times, testing it, before looking at him. “…I think I’m allergic to you.”
The look on his face promptly made Clarke decide discretion was the better part of valor and she bolted for her apartment.
Raven on the phone that night had no sympathy.
“Clarke, honey, that’s just sad,” she said and Clarke grumbled, “Tell me something I don’t already know.”
The next morning, she crept through the flower shop, bracing herself for the onslaught of sneezing.
She looked around warily, fully prepared for an attack, but her lungs were clear, her nose didn’t tingle. She was fine.
“My sister Octavia told me the cologne smelled bad,” offered a quiet voice and she turns to see the dark-haired clerk, no longer scowling darkly, but not entirely smiling either. “I have to say, having a girl actually be allergic to me is a new one,” he went on and Clarke, despite herself, blushed.
“Try soap next time,” she suggested and was slightly shocked at her own boldness.
“I’ll remember,” he said drily and much to her surprise, held out his hand to her. “Bellamy Blake. My sister and I own the place.”
“Your sister, that’s the girl who’s here?” Clarke asked, accepting his hand and wondering why she should feel so relieved about that.
“That’s her,” he said, his hand almost completely enclosing hers. He had callouses on his palms. “This place used to be our mother’s.”
“Oh,” Clarke said softly, a flicker of understanding going through her, though she didn’t press it. Instead, she let go of his hand and looked around the bright, colorful shop, full of blooms, hope and promise. “I’ll see you around,” she told him, making for the door and he called after her, “Tell me what kind of flowers you like.”
“All of them,” she said over her shoulder with a grin. “Good luck.”
He didn’t give her all of them, but there was a small bouquet outside her door when she got home, a note attached.
Next time, there’ll be dinner.