Free A Bouquet of Love by Janice Thompson Page B

walnuts,” I said after licking my fingers clean. “They’re my favorite.” I reached for another, gobbling it down.
    Off in the distance my father took the opportunity to extend the welcome mat to Officer O’Reilly, who’d shown up with three of Galveston’s finest. Babbas offered them each a free gyro and a cup of Greek coffee. Black, of course. Within a minute, the officers were seated at one of the tables in the corner, laughing and talking.
    Customers came and went for the entire morning, keeping us busy and excited. We couldn’t provide the breakfast sweets fast enough, and by eleven o’clock the sandwiches were being snapped up right and left. Apparently my father’s advertising campaign was working. And from what I could judge as I glanced out the window, the crowd on the Greek side of the street far outweighed the crowd on the Italian side. Not that Parma John’s appeared to serve breakfast, but whatever.
    The midmorning crowd finally thinned, and I worked up the courage to approach Babbas about my new job at the flower shop. I explained my reasoning and shared the plan I’d come up with to balance my hours between Super-Gyros and Patti-Lou’s Petals. All of this I did at warp speed, hoping to spit it out before he could comment. And I left out the part where my boss and all of my new friends happened to be Rossis.
    â€œI don’t understand it, Cassia.” Drops of moisture clung to his damp forehead. “You’ve always worked for the family. This is important. We’re just starting out and we need you at Super-Gyros.”
    â€œI understand, Babbas, but with so many other children in the family, you have all the workers you need. To cover most of the shifts, anyway. I can still come and go. Marcella will give me a flexible schedule.”
    â€œMarcella?”
    â€œThe shop owner. She’s great. And like I said, I can still help out. I’m not going anywhere. Not really. But I want to do something . . . different. Something unexpected.” I paused and did my best to press back the lump in my throat. “Why do you think I took those classes in floral design?”
    He gestured to the shop’s decor. “So that you could help decorate the shop, of course. It never entered my mind that you might jump ship.”
    â€œBabbas, that’s not what I plan to do. Not at all. You know I’ll always be linked to Super-Gyros.” Like I could ever get away.
    A muscle clenched along his jaw. “We will discuss this later, Cassia. The lunch crowd should be here shortly. You ready to get back to work? I need you today more than ever.”
    Clearly the man hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Or if he had, it had gone in one ear and out the other.
    A voice rang out from behind me. “I’d like the Super-Gyro with peppers and extra onions. Scratch the sauce. I’ve never been a fan of tzatzi . . . tzatzi . . .”
    I turned to see a local mailman standing there, licking his lips. Babbas stood, gave the fella a friendly pat on the back, and proclaimed that his sandwich would be half price. After teaching him the correct pronunciation of our homemade sauce. Minutes later, he had the fellow convinced that tzatziki—at least our version of it—was the perfect complement for the gyro.
    In the middle of the lunch crowd chaos, the mayor appeared. She opted for the souvlaki sandwich—our top sirloin shish kebab on a pita with tomato, bell pepper, onion, and tzatziki sauce. Babbas offered it to her for free, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Still, I could tell he’d won her over.
    A cute guy wearing a surfboard shop T-shirt asked for a Super-Gyro. The woman behind him wanted a Greek salad. On and on the orders went. Just about the time we’d made enough sandwiches to feed everyone in the place, I was worn out.
    I glanced around the shop, my gaze landing on a lady with three small