Reluctantly In Love (Emerald Cove Romance Book 1)

by Siân James

  Realistically I knew I’d have to store the vanity at Mum and Jim’s place with the other shop furniture until the renovations were complete, but the urgency I felt in having it in my possession was intense.

  “Everything alright?”

  Tingles ignited along my neck and my face heated at the voice.

  I hadn’t spoken to Matt since I signed the contract last week, and we hadn’t interacted since we’d given each other the Burning Looks outside our apartment complex (capitalization necessary).

  I had, however, seen him twice. The first time I’d shamelessly ogled him while he ran sprints on the beach with Andy and Luke. It was late Sunday afternoon, so late it could be considered almost evening. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the sand. Half the town and probably most of the tourists were out for evening exercise. People were strolling on the beach with excitable dogs, throwing them balls and frisbees, running, walking and all manner in between.

  I’d gone for an afternoon walk to clear my head after a day of staring at my computer screen and anticipating the following week when I saw them. To remain unnoticed, I perched myself high in the dunes and watched.

  Initially I told myself I would head down and join them, which was what I would have done if it had just been Andy and Luke. But Matt was an unknown who made me feel uncomfortable.

  I expected him to appear somehow separate to the others because Andy and Luke had been best friends since they were in kindergarten together, and Matt, only just having returned to town, was unfamiliar to their dynamic. But as I watched, I realised it was an immature assumption. Their banter and friendly competition made me smile, and when Matt was winning one of their sprints and Luke tackled him, I laughed out loud, clapping my hand over my mouth for fear the wind would carry the sound to their ears.

  Feeling like a voyeur I decided it was time for me to leave, so I took myself home.

  The second time I’d seen him had been outside the supermarket last night. I finished putting the shopping bags into the back seat of my car and as I straightened, I felt the prickling sensation of eyes on my back. It was a busy carpark but my eyes found him with unerring aptitude.

  He was standing with an older couple who I realised immediately were his parents, Joy and Mick.

  I watched them a moment as Matt leaned in and gave his mother a kiss on the cheek. She was dressed a little more sedately than my mother would be but had a hard-to-miss element of ageing hippy about her. And something decidedly “mumsy”. It was in the eye sparkle I could see even at this distance, and the roundness of her figure, and the gentleness of her demeanour. If Matt got the eye sparkle from his mum, he got his looks from his dad. Mick Carter was an older and greyer version of Matt. His tall frame, though maybe an inch shorter than his son, was still strong and fit.

  Matt said something that made his dad laugh and grip Matt’s shoulder in an affectionate shake. They said their goodbyes, and as they walked away Matt turned in my direction, his gaze unerringly found mine. Caught, my heart gave a weird thump and the butterflies that seemed to have taken up residence in my stomach took flight.

  He lifted a hand in acknowledgement, and not wanting to seem like a complete loser, I responded. He hesitated a moment, checking the road for traffic, then made as if to move towards me. Which was when, of its own accord, my body moved and moved fast. One minute I was standing beside my car, the next I was revving the engine and pulling into traffic.

  I didn’t check to see where Matt was until I was moving from the carpark into the road. In the rearview mirror, I saw him standing where he’d been, watching my retreat with a small smile on his face.

  That same face was now aiming a concerned look my way. I thought about lying and making my excuses to leave. Getting the dressing table wasn’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but I’d never been a coward, and I didn’t appreciate that Matt Carter was making me feel like one now.

  “There’s just this piece of furniture I want to buy for the shop, but I need a truck and my step-dad’s truck has just broken down again. It’s not urgent; my contact at the antique store said he could hold it for another day.”

  “What happens if Jim’s truck isn’t fixed tomorrow?”

  I shrugged, not missing the fact he knew who my step-dad was. “I guess I can ask someone else …” I trailed off. The only other people I knew with a big enough truck were Andy and Luke, but they were super busy and, it appeared, using their trucks.

  Matt stood silently beside me a moment, hands in the pockets of his faded, knee-length shorts before he said four little words that made the butterflies in my stomach do the cha-cha.

  “I have a truck.”

  I nodded but kept my eyes to the front, trying to control the nervous but probably goofy grin attempting to ruin my cool façade.

  “I could drive you,” he continued.

  I kept nodding inanely, eyes forward and my traitorous mouth now under control. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  “Not at all, I’m free all afternoon.”

  Shit balls.

  My brain was frozen. I needed a breather. I needed some time to concoct a legitimate reason why I couldn’t accept his very kind offer.

  “That’d be great, thanks.”

  Crapsticks!

  “No worries. Do you need anything? Or shall we go now?”

  I’d already had lunch, I’d recently been to the loo, and my handbag was slung over my shoulder.

  I couldn’t even formulate a brief reprieve.

  “Um, I’m ready now if you are?”

  He held his hand out palm up to indicate the direction of his truck. “After you. Mine is the black one.”

  We walked in silence to his truck, my heart rate increasing exponentially at the thought of being confined in a small space with him for the next two hours at least.

  He beeped the locks and came to my side of the cab, opening the door and offering his hand. Shocked at his chivalry, I didn’t take it immediately.

  “I’m not gonna bite; the step up is high.”

  I looked to the open door where he’d nodded and saw he was right. I could easily climb in, climb being the operative word. But at five foot four, it would be more like a scramble.

  I took his hand, the weird zinging sensation shocking me again and goosebumps erupting along my arm in its wake, and pulled myself up and in.

  He pushed the door to, closing me in with the deliciously magnified scent of man and leather, subtle cologne and motor oil.

  It was one of the most erotic combination of scents I’d ever had the pleasure of inhaling.

  Matt pulled himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Seat belts fastened and air-con going, he turned to me.

  “Lismore?”

  I nodded. “Lismore.”

  He released the park brake, rolled out into traffic and away we went. My stupefied brain still hadn’t engaged, which is the only reason how later I could justify what came out of my mouth next.

  “You know what they say about men with big trucks, right?”

  I cringed. Holy shit, my cliché alarm just went off in tandem with my what-the-fuck-did-you-just-say? alarm. I was surprised he couldn’t hear the bells jangling wildly in my brain.

  “No, what do they say?”

  DO NOT ANSWER THAT.

  I shrugged. “Oh, I have no idea. I just thought you might know since you have one.”

  He expelled the huff of a contained chuckle and sweat beaded on my brow. Crisis averted?

  I snuck him a quick glance. His eyes were dancing above a small smile.

  I mentally nodded, yup, crisis averted.

  Phew!

  Now for intelligent conversation, safe topics include—

  “So, what about flowers has you so passionate?”

  I gave him a sideways look. “You are joking, right?”

  He returned my side-eye, his eyes till dancing. “Humour me.”

  I blew out a sharp breath. “Well, for s
tarters they’re beautiful. And they brighten up a room, make everything seem more alive.”

  “While they slowly die?”

  I glared at the side of his face and was surprised when it didn’t shrivel up and fall off. “You’re one of those are you?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t really have an opinion. Just repeating what I’ve heard others say.”

  I sniffed. ”To goad me?”

  “As a florist, I assumed you’d have a convincing rebuttal for the most common argument against giving cut flowers as a gift.”

  I chewed on my tongue while I tamped down the urge to retaliate without thought.

  “Flowers given as gifts has a very long history. You could even say the practice was woven intrinsically with the dawn of civilised man. Many of the world’s ancient cultures reference flowers in their stories, myths and art. Think of the ornate Chinese pottery with floral painting, or the fact that so many Greek and Roman myths and even the names of gods are the same as flowers we have today, like Iris and Narcissus.”

  I sounded as if I’d swallowed an encyclopedia, but nothing was going to stop me now.

  “It’s well documented that during the Victorian era the practice of floriography, or the language of flowers, was a way to share to friends or especially to the object of your affections, emotions otherwise unable to be stated aloud.

  “For example?”

  “For example,” I repeated, warming to my topic, “the hyacinth was representative of playfulness or loveliness. However, that was mostly connected with white, red or pink flowers. If you were to give someone a bouquet—they called them talking bouquets, nosegays or tussie-mussies—with a blue hyacinth, there might be tones of constancy to the message, a purple hyacinth would convey sorrow or asking for forgiveness, and a yellow hyacinth would express jealousy.”

  “This is how the rose became the symbol of romantic love?”

  I nodded. “Yes, there are some Shakespearean references that helped perpetuate the idea, but you could say something similar with many other flowers. A red chrysanthemum or a peach hydrangea, or a bouquet of white, pink and red camellias all have separate meanings but together create quite a distinct message.”

  He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “And how is all this relevant to whether a person might think a bunch of flowers is simply a reminder of death.”

  “Because it demonstrates the long history of the use of flowers as bouquets—cut flowers. It is an inherent part of our culture. To actively see it as something other than what our ancestors practiced is, in my opinion, not the norm.”

  “You don’t think it’s normal for someone to find the fading of something beautiful as something to be avoided?”

  “No! Of course not,” I countered. “It’s normal to see decay and be sad about it, but that doesn’t mean the morbid opinion is one to be admired or aspire to. It’s purely a matter of perspective. Are you a glass half full or a glass half empty kind of person? Beauty is fleeting, the value is in enjoying it while it lasts, not mourning it before it’s gone.” I shook my head. “No, down that road there be monsters.”

  There was a beat in which my awkward semi-quote hung like a piece of limp lettuce.

  “So you’re a glass half full kind of girl then?”

  I breathed out, then back in. “A glass half full kind of woman? Yes, I think I am.”

  And I was. I had everything I could ask for. I had an awesome mum and step-dad, a great education which allowed me to start two successful businesses, a cute apartment with a plan to put a deposit on a house hopefully in a few years, and great friends. Plus, I lived in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

  I had it good and I knew it. Yeah, I was a bit busy, but anyone starting a business would be.

  I let my thoughts and eyes wander as we trundled down the highway. Lush green pastures dotted with cows gave way to blocks of avocado farms or rows of vegetables. The occasional farm stand stood unattended by the side of a gravel driveway with signs advertising sweet potatoes, macadamia nuts and bananas.

  Matt drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the opposite arm propped on the window ledge. He moved his hand, swiping his index finger absently across his upper lip.

  I eyed him curiously out of my peripheral vision. He’d donned his sunglasses as the sun rode lower in the Eastern sky and the effect was disarming. Something about those black sunglasses, his blond hair—spiky and dishevelled—and his more-than-five-o’clock stubble.

  I gave myself a mental shake and focussed on the road ahead.

  My mind couldn’t hold to it though and I found myself once again fantasizing about Matt this time in a suit, his shirt sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, the top few buttons undone with a few chest hairs peeking out. Crisp, navy suit pants on his narrow hips, gripping at his thighs just enough to show the muscle definition just like the tan shorts he was currently wearing.

  For some reason, when I got to his feet, I couldn’t put him in dress shoes, so I went with the bared feet from the day I officially met him in the markets. And bared feet meant the beach … I wondered if he surfed.

  “What are you thinking about so hard over there?”

  Matt’s voice snapped me out of my reverie and I realised I was pressing my legs together in a subtle attempt to relieve the ache my rumination had elicited.

  I shifted in my seat.

  “Are you growing a beard?”

  His eyebrows lifted subtly in surprise and he rubbed at his chin. “You like it?”

  Did I like it? Was he insane? He had to know two types of women existed in the world—those who liked beards and those who did not. Surely my artsy, hippy vibe gave away my affinity for male facial hair? No matter—no way was I was telling him my thoughts on his appearance.

  I shrugged. “It’s alright.”

  “Andy told me you and Tash are of the opinion that men are always better-looking with a beard.”

  I clicked my tongue. When were Andy and Matt talking about me and my thoughts on what makes a man attractive? Though I guess he mentioned Tash in the conversation too. “No, that is not what we said. We said there are many men who look better with beards, or facial hair in general. It can give them a more manly vibe. However, there are also plenty of men for whom it would be a crime to grow a beard and hide their jaws.”

  I thought a moment. “It really is all about the strength of the jaw.”

  “Is that so? Well, what do you think about the strength of my jaw?”

  His brows quirked above his sunglasses, and I knew he was teasing me.

  I rolled my eyes. “Clearly you don’t care, so why would I bother?”

  His features smoothed into something less mocking, “No, no, I want to know. I’m sorry. You have a valid point, and I’d like to know where you think I fit in.”

  I huffed a sigh, then lowered my sunglasses and pretended to scrutinise him as if I hadn’t already catalogued all his best features. The stubble evenly covered his face, jaw and neck in all the right places, fading out as it moved towards his Adam’s apple. Being partial to a beard, I was anticipating (with more interest than I cared to admit) how he might look in another few weeks.

  “Your jaw is alright. You could go without, but it would appear you could also wear a beard well.”

  He covered his smug smile with a wipe of his hand, but I’d already seen it. “You’re saying you think I’m good looking?”

  I snorted, crossed my arms and stared out the windshield. “I definitely did not say that.”

  “You think I’m good looking.” This was a statement.

  My back teeth ground together so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if he heard. I mean, really, the arrogance of the man could not be believed. “You tell yourself whatever you need to help you sleep at night.”

  He chuckled under his breath, and I determined not to speak again until we arrived at the antique store, and after twenty minutes of silence, we had.

  Matt pulled into the park out the front, and I leapt out
before he had his seat belt unbuckled, eager to both escape the cab and his presence, and to lay eyes on the dressing table I was after.

  He followed me into the store at a more sedate pace and waited patiently while I negotiated with the store owner. When we’d struck a bargain, the owner disappeared to collect some cardboard boxes to wrap the vanity for travel. Matt approached me.

  He was holding a large, particularly ugly art-deco plate with small white-and-yellow flowers painted around the edge.

  He looked rather proud of himself. “Daffodils,” he said. “These must be a happy flower?”

  I saw the gesture for what it was, an attempt at peace keeping. But I just couldn’t resist. “Indeed, daffodils are another flower one could use to express respect or unrequited love.” I studied the plate. “But these are not daffodils.”

  His smile faltered. “No?”

  I shook my head. “No, these are narcissus flowers. They’re smaller, earlier to bloom, and the outer petals tend to be white, like these.”

  “And what does a narcissus signify?”

  I met his eye, my face poker straight. “A big ego.”

  He bit his lower full lip, but the corners of his mouth quirked up. Eyeing the plate, he said, “Ah. Touché.”

  He turned and wandered into the dusty aisles of the store to return his cargo, and I was left feeling at once triumphant and uncomfortably hollow.

  Chapter 6

  “I’m late, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late!” I chanted as I threw my yoga mat over my shoulder, grabbed my purse, keys and sunnies, flew out the door, flicked the lock and pulled it to behind me. I’d made it down one flight of stairs and was rounding the semi-blind corner onto the flight below when I collided with a wall.

  “Whoa!”

  Not a wall. Matt Carter. My hands went to his bare chest as he stepped back, his arms wrapping around me, holding my body against his.