Luna peered through the doorway. Even from this distance, he could discern the anxious expression on her face. “It’s half-past six, Mr. Grimm,” she called. “Shall I be off then?”
Part of him was tempted not to answer. She’d not spotted him down in the rose bed as of yet. If he held his tongue, she might just go away on her own.
Instead, however, he pushed and pried his way out from among the thorny canes, deposited gloves and shears into the waiting wheelbarrow, and reclaimed his coat and tie. Draping these over his arm, he trudged back up through Garden, painfully conscious of the moment when Luna spotted him. She watched him in a silence which brimmed with unspoken questions. He was a bit embarrassed, truth be told, that she should see him mussed up like this. He’d lost his cufflinks entirely, somewhere along the way. Reaching the top of the hill, he rolled his head to one side, reluctantly meeting her gaze.
She stood with one hand resting on the doorknob and chewed her lower lip. “I’ve fed the potted plants,” she said at last. “And refreshed all the buckets and vases. Dishes are done and stacked, and the register is in order. Would you like me to restock anything before I go?”
“No.” He shook his head. The escaped lock of hair wafted across his eye. “I’ll take care of it, Miss Talbot. Thank you.”
She pressed her lips into a line and nodded. He felt her gaze running up and down his less-than-impressive figure, no doubt noting all the little tugs and snares from the thorns. Did she expect an explanation for his sudden abandonment of the shop? He kept his mouth firmly shut. She looked at him; he looked at her. And neither spoke a word.
Finally, Luna cleared her throat, turned on heel, and disappeared into the dark shop passage. Nigel had no choice but to follow. He shut Garden’s door behind him and locked it tight, before progressing out to the shop floor. All was quiet; a hush seemed to have settled over the flowers, who watched him covertly from behind their leaves. Even Debbie, on her skull-pot, was uncharacteristically subdued.
Luna plucked her coat down from its peg in the nook and slung it around her shoulders. Her back arched delightfully as she slipped her arms into the sleeves, and Nigel noticed . . . but quickly redirected his gaze. He moved to the register, pretending to check the logbook. The words and numbers swam before his vision.
“Mr. Grimm?”
He swallowed. Looked up. “Hmm?”
Her gaze was downcast, focused on her own fingers as she did up the buttons of her coat. “About tomorrow. Was there something you wanted to . . . ask me?”
His stomach knotted.
There was.
There was something he wanted to ask her.
Something completely, foolishly, stupidly inappropriate, which he had no business asking, but which he had almost let slip, despite all dictates of good sense and decorum.
“Yes.” Nigel closed the logbook with a quick snap. “Would you be so good as to come in at seven tomorrow morning? I intend to stock up on chrysanthemums. Those seem to be selling fast this season. It may take a little time to bring in the stock, and I’ll need you to manage the rest of the opening routine.”
She froze, her fingers still on the final button. Her dark eyes flicked to meet his. For just an instant, he saw hurt flash across her features. She said nothing, however. Simply stood there, looking at him, her lips slightly parted as though in surprise.
Then, dropping her lashes, she murmured, “Sure thing, Mr. Grimm.” Snatching her hat from its peg on the wall, she set it on her head. “Good night.”
Nigel didn’t bother to respond. She slipped from the store in a tinkle of bells, and he hastened to lock the door in her wake. For a moment he stood, breathing in the lingering chamomile scentof her, even as he refused to look out through the window and watch her cross the street.
Gods. When had he become such an ass?
Of course, she had plans with Officer Ward. Of course, he’d already halfway promised her the day off. Of course, she merely wanted a confirmation, and . . . and . . .
He turned abruptly and stepped back behind the counter to check the register. Itdingedopen, and he compared the day’s profits with the written log, pretending for all he was worth to be completely absorbed in this task. All the while acutely aware of the flowers. All of whom had turned to watch him.
At last, with a sigh, he looked up and scowled around the display floor. “What?” he demanded, roughly pushing that recalcitrant lock of hair back from his forehead.
The double-delight rose stared at him in ruffly disdain. The tiger lilies growled softly. Little puffs of smoke rose from the snapdragon tray, and even the violets, usually so demure, wore expressions of distinct disgust.
He turned to Debbie on her skull-pot. She tilted her head sharply, staring at him through one beady eye.“Never mind,”she said.
“Yes, I know,” Nigel snarled and slammed the register shut.
At five minutes to seven the following morning, Nigel stood behind the counter, staring at the logbook, and not really seeing anything on the pages before him.
He ought to get busy with all the first-thing-in-the-morning shop floor care. The double-delight rose kept shaking its canes forlornly at him from its porcelain pot, and the pussy willows and tiger lilies mewed piteously. All those little floral faces turned his way in expectation.
And yet he continued to stand where he was. Braced behind the counter as though preparing for a coming assault.
He was almost painfully aware of how time was passing. The clock ticked away behind him on the wall, eachtick-tocka gunshot in his brain. In another few minutes, Luna would arrive. Early, just as he had requested. She would call out her usual, “Good morning!” greeting, set her purse down behind the counter, don her apron, begin her routine tasks, and . . . and . . .
