Love in Bloom (11 page)

“Hi,” she said, and smoothed her suddenly sweaty palms on her thighs. “Nice day to be out,” she added. That was lame.

He looked around them, smiling. “Yeah. This is a pretty cool place.”

“It's a great place to go mushrooming in the fall.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Aren't you afraid you'll poison yourself?”

“On chanterelles? No.”

“Whoa. You can find those here?”

“All over the place. It's like Easter egg hunting for grown-ups.”

“Sounds like it,” he said with a grin. “You must come here a lot.”

“When I get a chance.”

“Your sister's not with you?”

Bobbi a nature girl
? Hope shook her head. “No, she had some things to do. I believe she's getting ready to turn you into Patrick Swayze.”

He produced a pained expression. “I think I'm in trouble.”

“Don't worry,” Hope teased. “She'll make it painless.” Suddenly, she was out of words. She managed a breezy, “I'd better get going,” and started backing away, giving him a little wave. “Watch out for crazed deer.”

Walking backward proved to be more of a challenge than she'd anticipated. Or maybe the challenge was walking backward in front of a hot guy. Whatever it was, she failed it and lost her straight line. Next thing she knew some sneaky branch had reached out and tripped her. She went over a log with a yelp, landing on the wooded side of the trail with her feet in the air. Please let him have gotten kidnapped by aliens, she prayed as she tried to right herself. Getting upright was easier said than done. The underbrush clutched at her and she couldn't seem to get her balance.

Now Jason was leaning over the log, reaching a hand toward her. “Here, let me help.”

Okay, the aliens could kidnap her.

But no aliens showed up to deliver her from her mortification. Her face flaming like a forest fire, she took his hand and he pulled her to her feet. The forest fire was still raging. She tried to put it out by focusing on brushing off her bottom.

Jason took a helpful sweep at her back. “You okay?”

No. I want to turn invisible right now. No, scratch that. I want to rocket back in time and turn invisible two minutes ago
. “I guess I need to get my steering checked,” she said, making him smile. “I'm not normally clumsy,” she added.

“You sure you're okay? You didn't sprain anything?”

“Only my pride. I'm fine. Thanks. Nice running away from . . . into you,” she stammered, and felt a fresh flush of embarrassment run up her neck and flood her cheeks.

He grinned. “Same here.”

She started walking—forward this time, no going backward. She could hear him striding away, his feet landing on the path with sureness and confidence. The temptation to turn and watch him was strong, but she resisted. It would be just her luck that he'd look over his shoulder and catch her gawking at him like a lovesick tweenie.

Get a grip, she scolded herself.
So, you fell on your butt in front
of your sister's boyfriend. You don't need to impress him. You couldn't if you tried
. Well, that was a nice, depressing pep talk.

Hope realized she was suddenly tired, so she turned and retraced her steps. What she needed was an afternoon with a cup of herbal tea and a good book. No Jane Austen today. A murder mystery, a gory one.

 

IN HIS JEANS
, white shirt, and boots, Jason Wells looked like he was born to dance. Boy, are looks deceiving, thought Bobbi. Even the steps of the simple Ah Si eluded him. But he was good-natured, laughing as he turned the wrong way or bumped into someone. And at least he was trying.

“I think I need private lessons,” he said as they sat back down at their table and dived into their lemonades.

“I think that could be arranged,” she said coyly.

“To night?”

She hadn't cleaned her apartment for nothing. “Maybe.”

Half an hour later they were on their way to her place. “I was walking not far from here today,” he said as he parked his truck in the guest parking. “In your Grand Forest.”

“Oh,” she said, trying to sound interested.

“I ran into your sister.”

That wasn't surprising. Bobbi had never understood what Hope found so exciting about wandering around in the woods. She liked flowers as much as her sister, but flowers were meant to be enjoyed like nature intended, in pretty arrangements sitting on your table, not out in the wild where you could get lost or stung by bees. Or both.

“I thought maybe I'd see you with her. Do you like to hike?”

“Oh . . .”
Crap
. “Who doesn't?” There. She hadn't lied. Further into their relationship, she'd explain to him about the dangers of bees and sticker bushes and other nasty things.

Inside her apartment, she settled Jason at the kitchen table, then set out milk paired with cookies from Sweet Somethings Bakery.

“These are good,” he said, holding up a half-consumed ginger cookie. “Did you make them?”

“I love to bake.” She was a whiz when it came to whipping that refrigerator case cookie dough onto a cookie sheet. She slid the plate toward him. “Have another.”

He swallowed the last of his cookie and reached for a second. “You know what this reminds me of?”

She shook her head.

“A scene from
Stranger than Fiction
.”

“Yeah? I like Will Ferrell, but I didn't see that movie.” Her friend Anna from the Last Resort had said it was weird so she hadn't bothered.

“It was pretty good.”

She propped her elbows on the kitchen table. “So, tell me about it.”

“Well, it's about a guy whose life is going nowhere. And suddenly there's this voice narrating everything he does.”

“Like God or something?”

“No, just a voice.”

“Oh, so he's crazy.”

Jason shook his head. “Just dull. He's an IRS agent and he winds up auditing this woman who's a baker. She bakes him cookies.” Jason smiled and sat back in his seat. “It's a cool scene. It's like the guy's life starts with a cookie. And a perfect woman.”

Okay, she got the connection. She cocked her head and smiled at him. “And he's the perfect guy for her.”

“Oh, yeah.” Jason got up slowly. “So, how about that dance lesson?”

“Okay.” She got up, too, and led him to the middle of the living room. “Maybe we should try it without music first so we can go slow.”

She placed herself by his side, ready to help him master the concept of heel-toe, but he caught her around the waist and pulled her to him and started them swaying. “What if I don't want to go slow?”

“We could speed things up a little,” she said with a smile. But not too much too quickly. That spoiled a man's appetite for commitment. She turned her face up to him and let him kiss her.

And that was the end of the dance lesson.

By the time he left, Bobbi was dizzy with love. This man was perfect. Well, other than the fact that he had two left feet that he liked to use to stomp around in the woods—oh, and the fact that he now thought she was the queen of the kitchen—they were a perfect match.

 

JASON DROVE HOME
buzzing like a power saw. Bobbi Walker was amazing. He loved her sense of fun and enthusiasm. He was amazed at how much they had in common. And beautiful? She was the woman in Byron's poem:
She walks in beauty, like the night
. Except Bobbi Walker wasn't night. She was broad daylight, dazzling sunshine. He'd hit the jackpot this time.

He went home, tossed his coat on a chair, and got a beer out of the fridge. Cookies and milk; that had been so cute. He called back the mental image of her in that hot, red top and those butt-hugging jeans. He backed off from mentally stripping her out of them. If he did he'd never get any sleep, and he did have to go to work in the morning. No virtual stripping.

No real stripping, either. This time he wasn't going to rush things. No doing it wrong with Miss Right.

He took another swig of beer, plopped on his couch, and picked up his Tony Hillerman mystery.

He'd read two pages when a fresh image popped into his mind: her apartment. It had been cozy with chick stuff: paintings of flowers, knickknacks, some kind of handmade blanket thrown over the
couch, ferns and flowers. But where were the books? No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't bring up an image of a book anywhere. No bookcase, no book lying on the coffee table. Magazines, but no books. Strange.

 

 

 

 

 

 

O
N MONDAY AT
Changing Seasons Floral, Hope had Easter inventory to mark down another ten percent, a cooler case to stock, and orders to fill. And it seemed like everyone in Heart Lake wanted to stop in to visit.

“The flowers you did for my mom's ninetieth birthday were gorgeous,” said Judy Livingston, one of her favorite customers. “And I can't believe how long they lasted.”

Judy was sixty-nine, but other than some wrinkles and a few age spots, she didn't look it. She still kept her hair blond and cut in the latest style, and wore jeans and tops with cheeky sayings. Today her shirt read, “You're a bad boy. Now go to my room.” Judy taught water aerobics and golfed once a week, and on weekends she took trips to the ocean with her boyfriend. Every time she came into the shop, Hope prepared to laugh. And when Hope was sick, Judy had
made sure she laughed as much as possible, always dropping DVDs of classic comedies on her doorstep.

“And was the party a big hit?” Hope asked.

“With my chocolate-fudge cake? How could it not be? In fact . . .” Judy produced a foil-wrapped package. “I saved you a piece.”

The last thing Hope wanted was more chocolate. She'd give it to Bobbi—restitution for eating all the truffles. “That was really sweet of you. You're great.”

Judy smiled, making herself look like a senior citizen pixie. “I know.”

They were still talking when a plump little woman about Judy's age entered the shop bearing a huge, sick-looking potted ivy. It trailed behind her like a dragon's tail, leaving who knew what kind of bugs and disease in its wake.
Typhoid Mary
.

“Carol. What are you doing bringing that sick thing in here? You want to kill all Hope's plants?” Judy scolded.

The woman stopped in her tracks and looked chagrined. “I thought you might know what's wrong with it,” she said to Hope. “I think it's dying. I figured if anyone could tell me what's wrong it's you.” She almost sounded like she was going to start crying. She was such a gentle soul. Hope didn't have the heart to scold her, especially after Carol had elevated her from floral designer to plant whisperer.

“Let's take it outside in the sunlight where I can get a better look,” Hope said, turning her around and guiding her and her plaguey plant out the door. Outside she examined the leaves. Oh, boy, just as she'd feared. The leaves were dry and yellowed. And it looked like the plant was completely root bound. “Okay,” Hope said crisply. “Here's what I'd do. I'd repot it. Then I'd go to the Trellis and get some insecticidal soap. I think you've got a whitefly problem.”

“Will it live?”

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” Hope said.

“Thank you,” Carol breathed. She turned and hurried off down the street, her ivy plant sweeping the sidewalk. And probably dropping little bugs everywhere.

Bugs
. Hope hurried back inside the shop. Judy was still there, waiting at the counter, a stone soap dish in her hand. “Do you need to fumigate?”

“I think I'm going to vacuum,” Hope said as she rang up the sale.

She'd barely gotten Judy out of the shop and vacuumed (and sprayed the floor with organic insecticide, just to be sure) when two more customers wandered in. “It's so gloomy out today. We need flowers,” said one.

“Tulips,” said the other.

“Tulips are perfect for a gloomy day,” Hope said with a smile.

“Especially if they come from Changing Seasons. I swear, your flowers last forever.”

“Only if they're silk,” Hope quipped.

Bobbi arrived at noon, ready and willing to work. But first . . . “I want to send a card,” she said, holding up a pink envelope. The front of the card was crammed with a collage of flowers. The inside was blank. “I need to write something really brilliant. What would you say to a man if you'd had an incredible evening together?”

Hope swallowed a little bud of envy. “The possibilities are endless. So, you had a good time. Does that mean he can dance?”

Bobbi made a face. “Barely.” Her expression turned dreamy. “But he has no problem with slow dancing. So, I thought something about dancing.” She scrambled around in her purse and came up with a pen.

“Hmmm.” Hope drummed the counter with her fingertips, trying to focus on being brilliant. “Two bodies swaying.”