Love in Bloom (8 page)

She found him waiting in the reception area, looking at the collection of pictures of various families who had frequented the restaurant over the years. They ranged from black and white—showing men in Ward Cleaver suits and women in hats, their children dressed up in their Sunday best—to glossy color photos of people sporting more casual wear like jeans and polo shirts. The food here was far from five star, but it was okay and the price was right. And that was important. If she'd suggested the Two Turtledoves, he'd have died of sticker shock. She didn't want to give the impression that she was high-maintenance.

He turned and his eyes lit up at the sight of her. She had that effect on men. Still, she always seemed to find herself stuck with losers. Not this time though. She knew Jason Wells was a keeper. And she was going to keep him no matter what it took.

“You look incredible,” he said

And you are incredible,
she thought.

“Wells?” called the hostess.

Jason cupped Bobbi's elbow and stepped them forward.

The hostess looked at him appreciatively before leading them past a smattering of retired couples and local workers taking a lunch break to a window table with a view of thick shrubs and bushes, and beyond that, a duck pond.

The best view was sitting right here in front of Bobbi. Jason's Chaps shirt hung open over a blue T-shirt that draped perfect pecs. Yummy.

“You know, the guys are still talking about that basket,” he said. “You're pretty damned clever.”

She tried to look humble.

“You've got flair. Were you an art major in college?”

College? Which one? She'd done a quarter at Mount Vista Junior College where she'd flunked Math Skills and Science 101, gotten
two marriage proposals, and broke her drama prof's nose fighting him off one night back in the costume room. After that, she'd decided she'd rather be a drama queen than take drama. She'd managed a semester's worth of classes at the Northwest Business College where she half mastered typing and flunked her filing test. Who flunked a filing test? Her, of course. She'd always had a fear of testing.

“I should have been an art major,” she decided. Why hadn't she thought of that? It wasn't too late to go back to school, but did she really want to study about dead artists who painted cherubs on church ceilings?

Home decorating! She liked making things look pretty. Maybe she should go to school and become an interior decorator. Or sell pretty house things on the home party plan. She loved parties. She could probably make a fortune. And, if she did home parties, she wouldn't have to dodge overly friendly men who were always wanting to grab her butt.

“So, how'd you end up with a flower shop?” Jason wanted to know.

Um.
“It was a good thing to do with my sister,” she said, thinking fast.

“I'll bet you two have a great time together.”

“We do. She's awesome,” Bobbi said. “She's always been there for me.” She still was.

The waitress came and gave them their menus.

Jason opened his. “What's good on the menu?” he asked the waitress.

“Not much,” Bobbi answered, making her frown. “But you can't go wrong with the pizza.”

“Okay, pizza it is,” Jason decided. “We'll order now. What do you like on yours?” he asked Bobbi.

“Anything but anchovies.”

He grinned and ordered a deluxe large and two Cokes. “And we'll do the salad bar,” he added, smiling at Bobbi.

Wow, it was like he knew without even asking her. “How did you know?”

“You don't exactly look like the kind of woman who pigs out on pizza.” He shrugged. “But I guess I could have been wrong. When I first saw you, you didn't strike me as the kind of woman who'd be into poetry.”

“I'm no expert,” she said, stretching the truth till it snapped.

She had never in her life, of her own volition, picked up a book of poems. Maybe if she'd been paying less attention to Gregory Wilson in the ninth grade and more attention to her English teacher, she would have developed a taste for that stuff. But she doubted it. Who wanted to read about love when you could live it?

“I'm not much of an expert myself,” said Jason. “But I've got my favorites.”

He did? What guy liked poetry, anyway? If he was trying to impress her, he could stop now. She suddenly felt fidgety. They were creeping onto dangerous ground here. If she asked him who his favorite poet was, he was bound to ask hers. If she didn't ask, he might think she wasn't interested in him. What to do?

When it came to men, Bobbi's mind was a computer. She inputted her questions and concerns and the answer quickly came back: look interested. Ask him something about poems.

“So, what's your favorite poem?”

“I like a lot of stuff. I really like Robert Service,” he said.

“Who?”
Way to sound dumb, Stupid.

Jason smiled. Her ignorance had amused him. Whew, that was a close one.

“He wrote about life in the Yukon. His most famous poem is ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee.' Ever hear of it?”

“Eeew. No.” He wasn't going to quote it to her right before they were about to eat, was he?

“Actually, it was a funny poem. I'll tell it to you sometime.”

“Like about a hundred years after we've eaten.” Before he could
ask her who her favorite poet was she stood up, saying, “Let's check out the salad bar.”

Now they were done with the subject of poets and they could move on to more fun topics, like TV shows and movies and what they each liked to do for fun.

But oh, no. As they moved along, spooning lettuce and olives and baby corn cobs onto their plates, he picked up the conversation again. “My dad turned me onto Robert Service. I think he figured it would be a good way to whet my appetite. Mom's an English prof and she insisted my brother and I be well rounded, so even though we'd rather have watched football or worked with Dad on construction sites, she forced us to do unguy things, like read poetry and go to musicals. I was even in one once.”

“Only once?” He was so good looking he could have been on Broadway. Or at least
American Idol.

He shook his head. “Once was enough. I sucked. Anyway, sports took most of my time.”

Oh, Lord. She hoped he didn't like outdoor sports like hiking. She decided not to ask. Instead, she said, “I like musicals. My favorite is
Phantom of the Opera
; I loved that movie.” The phantom had been so sexy. She'd never been able to understand what what's-her-name saw in the wimpy hero when she had that big, bad boy panting after her.

No wonder you end up with losers. You always like bad boys, even in movies.

But no more. She was getting smart and picking smart.

“Most women like the Phantom,” he said. “Hard to understand why though. I think it must be the mask.”

She smiled. “Women like secrets.”

“So do men.” He gave her a look that just about set her on fire. “I found out what those flowers stand for.”

The acacia. She'd already forgotten. She'd been more into the food goodies that went into the basket.
Pleeeease don't ask me to tell
you if you're right.
If he did, she'd run to the bathroom and call Hope.

But he didn't ask her. He did something worse. He brought them back to a subject she thought they were done with. “That was an awesome message on the card. I'm always impressed by people who can do cool things with words. You're quite a poet.”

“Oh, not really,” Bobbi said, frantically searching her brain for a new topic.

“So, got a favorite?”

“Oh . . .”
Crap.
Her mind was a blank. What kind of guy asked questions like this? Oh, yeah. One who wanted to know more about her, who wasn't a bad boy, one who was perfect.
You have got to impress this man.
She felt her blood pounding in her ears, heating her neck and cheeks.

She should tell him the truth right now, tell him all about how she hadn't paid attention in English class, how she'd jumped from school to school and job to job trying to decide what she wanted to be when she grew up. She should ask him to educate her, teach her to appreciate poetry. And math. Maybe he could teach her how to balance her checkbook.

He was looking at her, waiting for an answer. She tried to pull up some poet's name from her mental computer, but this was hard considering the fact that she had never programmed her computer with this sort of information. She'd never needed it.
Come on, give me something.

She blurted out the first name that came to mind. “Jane Austen.”

His eyes widened in surprise. Uh-oh. Wrong answer.

“I didn't know she wrote poems. You learn something new every day.”

“Yeah, you do,” Bobbi agreed, all the while hoping that Jane Austen, whoever she was, wrote poems. Why had that name come to mind? Where had she heard of Jane Austen? Somewhere.

Too late to retrieve her misstep now. And he was on to new conversational
territory. “I'll bet you're into all those movies they made out of her books.”

Of course. Now she remembered, Jane Austen wrote books. Hope loved her books. Well, old Jane probably wrote poems, too. Those writers were always scribbling something.

“My sister is big into those movies,” Jason was saying. “She and my mom tried to make me watch one once. Too slow for me. I couldn't keep track of what was going on. I'm more of a
Die Hard
man.”

Finally, something she knew. “Me, too,” she agreed, leaning forward. “Didn't you love the last one?”

“Oh, yeah.” Jason was leaning forward now, too. “I like action.”

She knew they had a ton in common. At last they'd found it. “Me, too.”

He cocked his head and studied her.

“What?” she prompted.

“I've never met anyone quite like you. You're beautiful, talented, smart—just too good to be true.”

“That's me,” she said lightly, and vowed to work on getting smart as soon as she found her library card.

 

AFTER LUNCH WITH
Bobbi Walker, Jason went to see how things were going at the site of the two duplexes A-1 Construction was building on the outskirts of town. Duke Powers, his right-hand man, looked up from his clipboard and greeted Jason with a jealous smirk. “So, how was it?”

“Great. Did you get ahold of Barrett? Are they delivering the rest of those two-by-fours today or not?”

Duke frowned. “Not. He claims they're short on guys.”

“The only thing those clowns are short on is brains,” said Jason, disgusted.

“Speaking of brains, what's the verdict?”

Jason smiled. “This one's got 'em.”

“So, it looks like you've finally graduated from bimbos,” said Duke. “Think you can bring this one home to Mom and Dad?”

“Oh, yeah.” This woman had keeper written all over her. She was perfect: easy on the eyes just like her sister, fun, and off-the-charts smart. And obviously the driving force behind the flower shop.

“Hey, if things don't work out and she wants a real man . . .”

Jason looked around. “Where? Anyway, there's no way I'm introducing her to you. She'll take one look at you, see what kind of friends I have, and dump me before we can even have a second date.”

“Which I'll bet you already set up.”

Jason smiled. “Sunday.”

“Sunday? What's wrong with Saturday night? Does she turn into a werewolf or something?”

“Sunday night is some kind of dancing at the Grange Hall.”

“Dancing? Since when do you dance?”

“Since now.”

Duke shook his head. “A hot chick going out with a klutz foot like you. Man, what a waste.”

“She doesn't think so.”

“And that makes me think this chick isn't as smart as you think she is,” Duke said with a grin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

E
ASTER WEEKEND HAD
been soppy, so Amber opted out on the annual egg hunt at Grandview Park, instead giving Seth as elaborate a hunt as she could manage inside their tiny, two-bedroom cabin. Ty had taken the car in to get fixed on Monday, then it had rained again Tuesday and Wednesday, leaving her with a house bound and increasingly cranky little boy.

But this was Thursday, she didn't have to work, and Heart Lake was getting a sun break. It was the perfect day to deal with poop— the garden variety, not what she was dealing with at home. So, she and Seth began their garden adventure with a visit to the Trellis, the town's nursery and one of its oldest businesses.

There was something calming about walking past all those bushes and trees, flats of flowers, and little fountains. A woman could find anything she wanted here, maybe even peace of mind. It was run by the Nakata family, old-time lake residents. In addition to carrying
every plant, shrub, and tree known to man, it offered garden art, tools, and soil preparations.