The Best Man's Guarded Heart (4 page)

Hitting the timer on her smartphone, she twisted it around to show him the display. ‘Thirty-six minutes, fourteen seconds.'

His mouth twitched for a few seconds before he flashed his watch at her and tapped one of the dials. ‘Nineteen minutes and forty-three seconds to carry in the flowers, which was all you specified. So I win.'

‘I didn't know we were competing.'

Those green eyes flashed with way too much smugness for her liking. ‘Why did you time me then?'

‘Oh, just curiosity.' Keen to change the subject, she added, ‘I'm really grateful for your help—thank you.'

He shrugged in response and turned his attention to the remaining stack of flower boxes, and then to the already trimmed peonies, sitting in their buckets of water. ‘Why so many roses?'

‘They're not roses.'

He contemplated the flowers dubiously.

She twisted the stem she was working on and held it out towards him. ‘They're peonies. I thought you would have known, being Greek, as apparently they are called after Paean, who healed Hades's wounds. It's thought that they have healing properties. It's also believed that they represent a happy life...and a happy marriage.'

To that he raised a sceptical eyebrow.

With her floral shears, Grace snipped an inch diagonally off the end of the stem. ‘Let me guess...you're not the type to buy flowers?'

‘On occasion I have.' A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth in reaction to her quizzical glance. ‘Okay, I admit that I let my PA organise the details.'

She tried to ignore how good it was to see those eyes sparkle with humour. ‘Now,
that's
just cheating...I hope you at least specify what type of flowers you want to send?'

He seemed baffled at the idea. ‘No—why should I?'

‘Because each flower represents something. When you send a flower you are sending a message with it.'

He looked horrified at that prospect. ‘Like what?'

Amused, she decided to make the most of him being on the back foot in this conversation. ‘Well, new beginnings are symbolised by daffodils...a secret love is represented by gardenias...' She paused for effect before continuing, ‘True love is shown by forget-me-nots, and sensuality by jasmine.'

Their eyes met and tension pulsed in the air. But then he broke his gaze away. ‘How about,
Thanks for a good night, but this is nothing serious
?'

Her heart sank. ‘A yellow rose is used for friendship, if that's what you're trying to say. But maybe it would be better not to send anything on those occasions.'

Unable to bear the way his gaze had fastened on her again, she bent her head and trimmed the foliage on the stem with quick cuts, a constant mantra sounding in her brain:
Stay away from him; he's a sure-fire path to heartbreak.

He eventually spoke. ‘Perhaps. But I still don't understand why so many flowers are needed for one wedding.'

So often she had heard the same incredulous question from grooms-to-be, who struggled to understand the volume of flowers needed to create a visual impact and how important flowers were for setting the mood and tone of the wedding day. She was used to talking them through her plans, and always keen to make them comfortable and happy with her designs, but with Andreas she felt even more compelled to spell out the intricacies of wedding floral design and the attention to detail required. She wanted it to be clear to him that she was not
playing with flowers
. That her presence on his island was essential.

‘Eight hundred peonies. Two hundred lisianthus, to be precise. Along with the bridal party bouquets, and the flower displays that will be needed outside the chapel and on the terrace, each reception table will have a centrepiece of five vases with five peonies in each, so with twenty tables—'

‘That adds up to five hundred flowers.'

‘Exactly. Today I have to trim, cut and place all the stems in water. Tomorrow the stems will need to be cut again and placed in fresh water. On Friday fifty potted bay trees and storm lanterns will be delivered, to be placed along the walkway between the jetty and the chapel, and on the main terrace for the reception and the dancing.'

He surveyed the boxes of flowers yet to be opened and then looked over to the large pile of other unopened boxes. His gaze narrowed. ‘What's in the other boxes?'

She had gone over her stock list so often she had no problem in recalling all the items she had ordered. ‘One hundred glass vases for the centrepieces, two hundred votive candles, fifty lantern candles and thirty pillar candles. Flower foam, more string, wire, ribbon... The list goes on. They all need to be unloaded today, ready to be prepped tomorrow. And I also have to finalise my designs.'

He checked his watch and frowned. ‘I have to get back to my conference calls. Is there anyone else who can help you with all this?'

‘I'll manage.' Even if it meant she would be working late into the night. ‘Two more florists will be joining me tomorrow, but I need to get all the basic prep done today or I'll run out of time.'

His eyes drifted over the now crowded room. ‘I have to admit that I hadn't realised the volume of work involved.'

A smile tugged at her lips. ‘Perhaps now you understand why I need to be here and not touring the nightclubs of Athens.'

He gave a gracious nod in response, his eyes softening in amusement. ‘Yes, but that's not to say that I don't think it's all crazy.'

With that he left the room, and Grace stood stock-still for the longest while, her heart colliding against her chest at being on the receiving end of his beautiful smile.

* * *

Six hours later Andreas made his way back down to the workshops. Eleni, although tied up in an argument with the catering team over the use of her beloved pots and pans, had whispered to him that Grace had not appeared for lunch, and gestured in appeal towards a tray of food.

Never able to say no to his indomitable housekeeper, who had him wrapped around her little finger, Andreas approached the workshops now in frustration at yet another disruption to his day. But he had to admit to concern for Grace at the huge amount of work she had to tackle alone, and to a grudging respect for her determination and energy in doing so.

Inside the first workshop the tiled floor was akin to a woodland scene, with green leaves and cuttings scattered everywhere. In the middle, armed with a sweeping brush, Grace was corralling the leaves into one giant pile, her face a cloud of tension.

A quick glance about the room told him she was making slow progress. She needed help. And unfortunately he was the only person available.

‘Eleni's concerned that you missed lunch.'

She jerked around at his voice.

He dropped the tray on the edge of a workbench.

‘That's very kind of her.' She paused as she grabbed a nearby dustpan and composting bag. ‘Please thank her for me but tell her not to worry—I can fend for myself.'

The composting bag full, Grace tied it and placed it in a corner. He, meanwhile, had taken over the scooping of the leaves.

She moved next to him, her bare legs inches from where he crouched down. If he reached out, his fingers could follow a lazy path over her creamy skin. He could learn at what point her eyes would glaze over as his fingers traced her sensitive spots. The desire to pull her down onto the mound of leaves and kiss that beautiful mouth raged inside him.

‘There's no need for you to help.'

She sounded weary.

He stood. His gut tightened when he saw the exhaustion in her eyes. ‘You need a break. Have some lunch. I'll finish here.'

She hesitated, but then walked over to the tray. The deep aroma of Greek coffee filled the workshop but she immediately went back to work, carrying a fresh box over to the table. In between opening the box and sorting through the flowers she hurriedly gulped down some coffee and took quick, small bites of a triangular-shaped parcel of spinach and feta cheese pie—
spanakopita
.

He gathered up the tray, ignoring her confused expression, and took it to a bench outside. When Grace joined him he said, ‘You shouldn't work and eat at the same time.'

‘I'm too busy.'

‘Let's make a deal. If you agree to take a ten-minute break, I'll stay a while and unpack some of the supplies for you.'

She stared at him suspiciously. ‘Are you sure?'

He needed to make clear his reasons for doing this. ‘You're my guest—it's my duty to take care of you.'

She paused for a moment and considered his words before giving a faint nod. ‘I'd appreciate your help, but I must warn you that it might prove to be a tedious job because the suppliers haven't labelled the boxes. I need you to find the glass vases for me first, as I have to prep them today. There's a box-cutter you can use on the table next to the boxes.'

He went back inside and started opening boxes. She rejoined him within five minutes. A five-minute break that had included her answering a phone call from someone called Lizzie.

A begrudging respect for her work ethic toyed with his annoyance that she hadn't adhered to her side of the bargain. He wasn't used to people going against his orders.

They both worked in silence, but the air was charged with an uncomfortable tension.

Eventually she spoke. ‘What were these workshops originally used for?'

Sadness tugged in his chest at her question. He swallowed hard before he spoke. ‘My uncle was a ceramicist and he built these workshops for his work.'

She rested her hands on the workbench and leaned forward. ‘I noticed some ceramic pieces in your house—are they your uncle's?'

‘Yes. He created them in these workshops; there's a kiln in the end room.'

‘They're beautiful.'

Thrown by the admiration and excitement in her voice, he pressed his thumb against the sharp blade of the box cutter. ‘He died two years ago.'

For a long while the only sound was the whistle of the light sea breeze as it swirled into the workshop.

She walked around the bench to where he was working. ‘I'm sorry.'

He glanced away from the tender sincerity in her eyes. It tugged much too painfully at the empty pit in his stomach.

‘What was he like?'

The centre of my world.

He went back to work, barely registering the rows of candles inside the box he had just opened.

‘He was quiet, thoughtful. He loved this island. When I was a small boy the island belonged to my grandparents. They used it as their summer retreat. My uncle lived here permanently. Christos and I used to spend our summers here, free to explore without anyone telling us what to do and when to be home. That freedom was paradise. We'd swim and climb all day, and at night we'd grill fish on the beach with our uncle. He would tell us stories late into the night, trying his best to scare us with tales of sea monsters.'

‘There's a gorgeous ceramic pot in the living room, with images of sea monsters and children...did he create that?'

He was taken aback that she had already noticed his single most treasured possession, and it was a while before he answered. ‘Yes, the children are Christos and me.'

‘What wonderful memories you both must have.'

He turned away from the beguiling softness in her violet eyes. He closed the lid of the box, still having been unable to locate the vases. It was strange to talk to someone about his uncle. Usually he closed off any conversation about him, but being here, in one of his workshops, with this quietly spoken empathetic woman, had him wanting to speak about him.

‘He always encouraged me to follow my dreams, even when they were unconventional or high risk. He even funded my first ever property acquisition when I was nineteen. Thankfully I was able to pay him back with interest within a year. He believed in me, trusted me when others didn't.'

Her thumb rubbed against the corner of a box. He noticed that her nails, cut short, were varnish-free. A plaster was wrapped around her index finger and he had to stop himself from taking it in his hand.

She inhaled before she spoke. ‘You were lucky to have someone like that in your life.'

Taken aback by the loneliness in her voice, he could only agree. ‘Yes.'

She gave him a sad smile. ‘Kasas is a very special place...you're lucky to have a house somewhere so magical.'

Old memories came back with a vengeance. ‘Some people would hate it.'

‘Hate this island? I think it's the most beautiful place I have ever visited.'

Andreas watched her, disarmed by the passion in her voice. He wanted to believe everything she said was heartfelt and genuine. That he wasn't being manipulated by a woman again. But cold logic told him not to buy any of it.

It was time to move this conversation on. It was getting way too personal.

‘The vases aren't here.'

Her mouth dropped open and she visibly paled. ‘They
have
to be.'

‘I've double-checked each box—they're not.'

She gave a low groan and rushed over to the boxes, while frantically pushing buttons on her phone. As she ransacked the boxes she spoke to someone called Jan.

Andreas walked away and into the adjoining room. Once again he tried to ignore the loneliness crowding his chest at being in these workshops for the first time since his uncle had died.

A few minutes later Grace followed him into the end room, where the kiln was located. She stopped at the doorway and clenched her phone tight in her palm. Her paleness had now been replaced by a slash of red on her cheeks.

She spoke in a low voice, her eyes wary. ‘The vases were never despatched by the suppliers in Amsterdam; they won't get here before Saturday.'

He had guessed as much. He gestured to the vast array of white porcelain pots on the bench beside the kiln. ‘You can use these instead.'