Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 199(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 199(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
“Some things take time,” she murmurs, leaning in a little, at ease with me now. It’s as if she’s telling me a secret. The smell of baked cookies and warm milk coming off her make me feel like I’m five years old all over again.
“If she loves you, you can bet your bottom dollar that whoever she is, she’s feeling just as crazy as you right now.”
Creasing a smile, she pats my hand. Disappearing through the little curtain that leads out back, I half wonder if I haven’t just seen a ghost.
But I know she’s right.
And Jasmine sure acted weird when I asked for flowers, but I wouldn’t say she was down on all fours, barking crazy like I’ve been since yesterday. I definitely picked up her vibes.
But until I hear it from her own mouth, I don’t want to speculate. That’s the attorney in me.
The professional man in me wants to speculate. Calculate.
The beast in me wants to procreate. Ejaculate. Inseminate.
Mate for life. With Jasmine. The one.
And soon.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jasmine
Okay. So maybe I am nuts after all.
The man of my dreams comes into my store twice in one day, and I still don’t know how to feel about it.
Is he crazy, or just driving me crazy?
One minute he’s making eyes at me. The next, he’s going to tear the courier a new one. Now, for round two, he just wants to buy flowers… said so himself.
Sure, I gave him a freebie after I fleeced his friend. However, that would’ve been the perfect time to say something if he was interested. I guess I could’ve spoken up, too. But seriously? A twenty-year-old florist asking out Mr. Big Stuff? Doesn’t seem right.
I give up.
I can’t deny the effect he has on me physically. If an older guy like that, successful as hell and used to giving orders, not taking them, really wanted me, he would have said or done more than buy flowers and leave.
So, I do what I always do when I feel the hurt monster rearing its ugly head. I turn on my charm and bubble up to eleven, and I get on with what needs doing. In this case, it’s a flash mob sale of old ladies picking the dollar plant rack clean.
I force myself not to watch James leave. I tell myself for the hundredth time I’m probably just overtired or hungry if I think a man like that would travel to this side of town just for me. Me, of all people.
I push it all down, having a long, animated chat with the group of seniors who’ve made the most of a rainy day.
With my clearance rack cleared, I set about my usual chores all over again. I focus on what I know rather than what I don’t regarding men, and what needs doing.
Tying myself into a knot over James would be stupid. As much as I probably need “doing” right now as my little store, I can’t afford to waste energy on fairytales. Dreams don’t always come true, especially in my world.
But damn. If, after an hour or so, I get a steady trickle, then a definite flow… one after the other, well-dressed, executive-looking types. Each one pulling up out front and ducking in long enough to buy a bunch, or a plant, or whatever’s left before they pay cash and leave without more than a nod or a shrug…
Weird.
Maybe there’s a success conference nearby, and they have to bring flowers to mourn everyone who doesn’t earn twenty grand a month.
It distracts me from feeling hurt about how I know I acted with James and his strange antics, and puts more money in my register than I’ve ever seen. I sell out of everything for the first time ever, and it’s not even lunchtime.
With the money from big head’s plastic bunch, I could even do something I’ve never done since opening. I could take a day off—the rest of today and tomorrow, if I really wanted to.
I feel a different kind of guilty thrill at that idea.
Safer than trying to figure out James, and why stay open if I have no flowers or plants left to sell? It’s settled, and I’m out of my apron in a flash and off to see Iris before calling it a day.
The closed sign on her little shopfront door doesn’t surprise me. She often closes up or doesn’t officially open some days. But closing before lunch is kinda unusual, even for Iris. She doesn’t need my permission, but it would have been nice to spill my guts to her after the day I’ve had.
She’s like eighty-something, so if she wants a nap or just doesn’t feel like it, she closes up. Most times, it’s because of her husband, Phil, who has health problems, and Iris is always the first to put love for her man way before work in her own store.