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He wasn’t insulted, because it hadn’t been said to piss him off. Just a statement of fact. Nash didn’t like people very much, only a select few, and not all at once.
“Nice. Glad there was an opening. See you round, Trainer.”
“Later, Nash.”
He crossed the road, read the sign on the new chocolate shop that confirmed it was opening in three days—because he knew it was expected of him and that Mrs. L was watching. He then headed down a few shops.
Nash had a reason for being in town and not on his property building his house away from people. It was his mother’s birthday tomorrow, and she loved flowers.
Blooming Marvelous was the name of the shop he wanted.
A woman stood looking in the window. She wore a fitted olive-green dress that stopped midthigh and showed off her lovely long limbs and every part of her body. Those legs seemed to go on forever. A wedge sandal made her taller—you knew about things like wedge sandals when you had a sister who talked constantly—and her toes were a soft pink. Her hair was a mix of brown and blond with other colors thrown in, and it was loose and long, stopping just below her shoulder blades.
He had a sudden need to see her face. Moving closer, Nash noted the woman was studying a small white sign to the left of the florist shop’s window. He knew what it said, as he’d read it the other day. The business was for sale.
“Thinking of buying the place?”
She spun so fast, her back hit the window as she stumbled. Nash reached out to steady her. Her arm was warm, skin soft. He released her as she clenched her hands into fists.
“I come in peace.” He raised his hands, palms facing the woman. “I just noticed you were looking at the sign.”
If he’d thought the back view was good, the front was sensational. The dress was simple and modest but anything but on that body. In fact, she was everything Nash had vowed to stay clear of. Hers was a beauty that you saw in movies and magazines. Arctic blue eyes framed by thick lashes that he guessed were likely fake. He knew about them too, because Maggs used them and had once tried to put them on him. Smooth, soft skin, high cheekbones, with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her mouth was slicked with color, and her lips pouty. He still had a few inches on her, but he guessed she was close to six feet tall.
“I was,” she said in a husky voice that rolled right down his spine. He detected an accent.
“Yeah, well, sorry again for scaring you.” He moved around her and entered the shop. That reaction told him what he needed to know. She was likely the overly hysterical type. Woman like that usually spelled trouble, and he wasn’t looking for any. He’d been there before, a few times, and it had never worked out well for him. The last time he’d fallen for a face without checking what was behind it had scarred him for life.
That earthy scent you got when a bunch of greenery and cut flowers were in the same room greeted him as he moved deeper into the shop. No one was behind the counter, but that wasn’t weird here, often you went into a shop and found it empty, as the owner was talking to someone on the street or out back.
He leaned down and smelled a pink flower, then moved on to another. His mother liked color, but he was clueless as to what to pick for her. The florist usually took care of that.
“The alliums are cute; put some zinnias in too.”
She’d entered behind him. English, he thought, now he’d heard her speak again. A bit uptight, kinda prissy, and sexy as hell.
“Or maybe tulips; they make a lovely bouquet.”
“How do you know I’m looking to get a bouquet?” he asked, feeling annoyed for no other reason than looking at her made something inside him tense. Surely it was a crime to be that beautiful?
She was slim but shapely. Nice breasts, flat stomach, and toned arms and legs. She was probably one of those gym types and frequented a place where people liked to be seen. Everything about her screamed pampered. Her nails were long, pink, and matched her toes. Nash thought she looked like a model.
“You’re in a florist shop; I doubt you’d be in here just for fun. Unless you’re a flower grower, or want to be a florist, my next guess is buying a bouquet for someone.”
He grunted something, then looked at the flowers in the bucket closest.
“So, am I right?”
“About what?” He shot her a look.
“You, buying your girlfriend a bouquet of flowers.”
“My mother.”
“Need some help? I know about flowers.”
He didn’t mean to look her up and down, because, well, that was just plain rude and if his sister knew he’d done it, she’d make his life a living hell. “I’ll ask the owner of the shop if she ever comes out of hiding,” he muttered, walking away from her.
“Suit yourself.”
