Hearts in Bloom (2 page)

“I agreed to the date before I saw the BMW, dummy. This one got me with his good looks alone.”

“Just be careful, okay?”

“Out.”

And if he’s shallow, I’m under no obligation to invest myself.

Ivy crawled into bed then pulled the covers up to her ears. As a naïve, twenty-one-year-old senior in a science major, catching the interest of someone in John’s position at the university had been a heady experience. Late nights in the lab working at his side. Discussions of seed viability and growth she not only understood but could add to with what she was learning in her courses. He’d made her feel intelligent, special…beautiful. Desirable.

“We’re separated,”
he said.
“Practically divorced.”
He never wore a ring.

How could I have been so stupid? He was never going to leave her.
Hot tears of unrelenting shame dripped to her pillow.
I was raised better.

The next day passed quickly then Ivy raced home to get ready for her date. She wasn’t sure yet if this dinner was only business, so she dressed with little skin showing. Khaki slacks, trendy floral-print blouse in corals and pinks, light cardigan in a poppy red. She carefully obeyed her dating rules, established after early blunders. One: she pulled her straight hair back, pushing the coffee-brown strands into a clip; leaving it down led to spending the whole meal holding it away from her face with one hand. Two: she was likely to order a meal with tomato sauce—Ambrosia served Italian food—and so did not tempt fate by wearing white. Three: no French onion soup; bad association from prom night. Not a problem at Ambrosia, but still a rule.

The pay lot adjacent to the building had several open spots. Ivy breathed easier and chose one close to the front. Gaze darting from street corner to all edges of the lot, ears open for anyone hassling passersby, she fed the parking lot box, put the ticket on her dash then crossed the short distance to the restaurant.

The heavy wooden door opened over a stoop lined with a mosaic of tiny black and white tiles. The nineteenth-century brick building, one of downtown Eugene’s original structures, had been beautifully restored on the inside. She took a seat at the long wooden bar with polished brass details and admired again the mirrored wall behind the bar with its attractive lineup of liquor bottles. Upstairs, each small
table occupied a private pool of light from floor lamps with elaborate chiffon and lace shades dripping with beaded silk tassels. The food was pricey and the quality one would expect for the money, but Ivy loved Ambrosia most for the lamps.

At seven precisely, according to her cell phone, CJ walked in, sporting a brown, bomber-style leather jacket. A smile spread across his face when he spotted her. His eyes flashed relief, then pleasure. Ivy’s heart thumped. His masculine frame and handsome face were even
more yummy in the dim restaurant lighting. While still in slacks, he’d foregone the tie this evening, opting for a more casual Henley in a shade of teal that made Ivy’s mouth water.

The hostess escorted them up the narrow wooden stairs to the upper floor, arranged like a catwalk around the building’s open interior. Ivy fought the impulse to exaggerate the swing of her hips as she climbed, knowing her ass was right in CJ’s face. Surely he was looking. She turned her head slightly to glance behind. She was right. Eyes on butt, predatory smile proving his enjoyment. Goosebumps flashed across her arms under her sweater. She sealed glossed lips over a grin of triumph.

They were shown to a table for two above the front door, away from traffic flow. CJ stood while Ivy got settled before taking a seat. Idle chat filled space before they studied their menus.

“You said this is an interview,” Ivy said. “Explain to me again what you do.”

He met her gaze. “I use media you may not have considered to put your business in front of your customer base.”

Their server returned with two glasses of water and asked if they’d like drinks to get started. CJ ordered a cola. Ivy chose to have water, though she really wanted a Cosmo. She was driving, and even with dinner, one cocktail would make her too tipsy to be safe. She opened her menu and scanned the familiar dishes.

“Would you like an appetizer, maybe calamari?” CJ asked.

“The bruschetta is really good.”

After the waitress dropped off his cola, CJ said, “To put this in perspective, think of my job as similar to a wedding planner. I know venues and vendors you’ve probably never heard of who can tailor marketing specific to your business’ needs. This way you get out of it exactly what you need without wasting money on ads that don’t work. You work with wedding planners as a florist, right?”

“Some.”

“A little SEO magic can put your flowers in vases you didn’t know were there.”

“What is ‘essio’?”

“Search engine optimization. I could line your business up with every wedding planner’s index in this county. Funeral services, hospitals, parade float committees.”

“Whoa—don’t forget supply and demand. We’d get too many people wanting the flowers and we’d run out.”

He arched a brow. “You did not seriously say that, did you? That’s not a bad thing.”

“It is if you can’t supply a request. That’s a customer who will never be back.”

“And yet if you have hundreds of others who are happy and you sell every blossom, will your profits not go up, allowing you to invest in ways to increase your supply?”

“Eventually there’s a limit to the land and how much we can grow in our greenhouses.”

“Have you ever reached that limit?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t that be a wondrous thing?” He pressed his lips to the edge of his glass and lowered the level of his soda, the light slurping sound reminiscent of a private activity her girly parts craved at this moment. “You know, I’d love to see your greenhouses.”

Why did that sound kinky? Ivy sipped her water and dropped her gaze to her menu. She uncrossed and re-crossed her knees. “A tour can be arranged.”

Their server took their appetizer and dinner orders. Ivy chose the Fettuccini Davide while CJ decided on the ravioli. The waitress took their menus then proceeded downstairs to the kitchen.

CJ said, “Tell me about
yourself. I assume you grew up here?”

“East of Springfield, yeah. Walterville.”

“Still live on the family farm?”

“I do. After four years living frugally on my own for college, it was nice to come home. I have my own mini-suite Dad built out of an old outbuilding, sort of a studio apartment duplex. My brother has the other half. It’s insulated and we have electricity and full bathrooms. No kitchen—we have to raid Mom’s, but we have more privacy than if we were still in our old bedrooms. The walls are thin. I have to bang on Jake’s wall sometimes to get him to turn down his music.”

“Autonomy but not too much.”

“Exactly.” Ivy laughed.

“Phone line?”

Ivy held up her cell phone.

“TV?”

“Satellite, baby.” She took another sip of water. “I spend more hours in the greenhouse than watching TV.”

“Watching plants grow.”

“Yep.”

Their server brought the bruschetta and two small plates. Steam rolled above the wild mushrooms, garlic, onions, roasted red pepper and goat cheese. Ivy’s mouth watered.

“That smells good.” CJ lowered his napkin to his lap. Ivy did the same then they divvied up the food.

“Your turn. Show me whom I’d be working for,” he said. “Tell me what you find alluring about the hothouse.”

Alluring hot man. House. Hothouse
. Ivy shook herself and thought about the answer. “When I was a kid, I liked the smell. Something about humid dirt and sprouting greens and the different flower smells. Growing flowers is our family business, of course, so my brother and I had chores in the greenhouses as far back as I can remember, but I liked the work. I studied horticulture at OSU, took some business classes.” She shrugged. “I got my degree and came home.”

“That’s quite the abridged version, I’m sure.” Hazel eyes smoldered darker brown in the half-light.

She deflected him with a smile. “Yeah. But you’ve got the salient points for this interview.”

He swallowed the last bite of his bruschetta. “Maybe later I’ll get more out of you.”

Her jaw dropped at his audacity.
As if
. The waitress slid their entrees into place and took the appetizer plates.

CJ’s fork tapped porcelain as he dug into the steaming ravioli. “Such as why is a horticulture grad content to be a minimum wage peon in a flower shop, even if it belongs to her parents? A woman who understands the language of flowers beyond what her customers request is wasting her talent.”

What is it with men thinking I’m wasting my skills?
Under the table, she gripped her napkin in a tight fist. John’s concurrence, from that horrible final day when she announced her decision not to pursue her master’s project, echoed in her mind.
“You don’t belong in academia. Get out and see the world—don’t waste yourself here.”

She turned her attention to her plate. “How did you know I put together that bouquet?”

“I guessed. You are the only hub for delivery for McVey Gardens and my former client would never have thought to put together those particular flowers.”

“I’ve never met a woman before who would send flowers to a man, especially in anger. It was fun, actually, putting that together.” She blew on a bite of fettuccini. “How do you know about the language of flowers?”

He shrugged. “Literature and poetry classes. I had a prof who was into Victorian England. I found the idea entire messages could be contained in a bouquet fascinating. I bookmarked a few pages on the Net. The woman who ordered that arrangement, my client at the time, knew my fascination with flowers. She thought it made me seem gay.”

Ivy’s face heated for the shared thought, though her assumption had been for a different reason. “And you said?”

A smile flitted across his mouth. “I said if she had a problem with gay men, she was going to have a hard time in the beauty supply business.” He swallowed the last of his soda, the ice rattling softly, then set down the glass. “I have a couple friends who are gay. I don’t ask and they don’t tell—I don’t really care what they do in private as long as they don’t give details. Her attitude ticked me off. Would it make a difference in our business association?”

“Not for me.” She took another bite and chewed thoughtfully.
Dare I express my attraction to him aloud?
“Not for business. But I would find it disappointing on a personal level.” Stirring her pasta, she chanced a glance back at his face. “Maybe that was what she wanted.”

He finished chewing and raised one eyebrow. “Not my type.”

“Duck fan, eh?”

He snorted. “I’m not from around here. I don’t get that whole thing with the green or yellow zeros in car windows.”

He is so awesome
. “I was a Beaver. Do you back anyone from the Pac-12 I need to know about?”

He shook his head. “Do you have a problem with Boise State?”

“Absolutely not.” She laughed and raised her glass. He lifted his empty glass and they clinked the two together for their toast.

Their server swung by with a refill of his soda. Conversation followed the line of sports, a topic she navigated well thanks to Jake, although it was soon apparent CJ wasn’t big into sports. She asked about his attachment to a team in Boise and learned he’d recently moved to Eugene from Idaho. Dinner passed amiably. Ivy declined dessert, and when the bill came CJ refused to let her pay her half. “My interview, my invitation, my treat,” he told her, tucking a credit card into the black vinyl folder.

“At least let me get tip.” She pulled a $10 from her wallet and slid it under the edge of her glass.

As soon as the server returned CJ’s receipt, he stood and then gestured for her to walk in front. Outside, the air had cooled, courtesy of the late spring breeze coming in from the Pacific. CJ walked her to her car in the pay lot. His tall, male presence fitted around her sense of exposure like a blanket, guarding her from any harm threatened by the seasonal homeless that frequented this part of downtown and tweakers on their way to a score down the block. Nothing would harm her while he was near.