by Tara Sheets
Bella slapped her designer bag on the counter—beige, of course—and said, “I’ll take it.”
* * *
Logan finished measuring off the perimeter of the greenhouse foundation and started digging a hole for one of the posts. He wiped sweat from his brow with his T-shirt, which he’d pulled off an hour ago.
“Oh, there you are, Logan,” called a bubbly voice.
He turned to see Bella Sinclair walking toward him.
“Well, look at you, all working hard,” she said to his bare torso.
Logan clutched his balled up shirt. “What brings you out here?”
“I came to see if you wanted to get lunch.”
He checked his watch and grimaced. Past twelve o’clock, and he still needed to get the last post centered. “I can’t today. I’ve got a lot of work to do here.”
She pouted and fluffed her ponytail.
Logan’s stomach growled. He was actually pretty hungry.
“I just checked out your uncle’s flower shop,” Bella said. “I bought one of those perfumes.”
Aw, hell. What was he supposed to say next? He never quite knew how to talk to Bella, because she was always going on and on about things he didn’t get. Shoes and nail salon gossip and what so-and-so said to so-and-so. And now she wanted to talk about perfume? Luckily, Bella was a chatterbox. Logan never had to say much because she usually said it all.
“Some ladies from my office told me about all the great bath products they sell here at the florist shop, so I wanted to try them out. They smell divine.”
“The ladies from your office?”
“No, silly.” Bella gave him a playful shove. “The bath products from that Holloway girl. You know, the one in the shop?”
“Yeah.” He knew the one. Logan looked at the back window where Juliette was busy dusting the shelf. She seemed very intent on her job. Too intent.
Bella reached into a small paper bag and pulled out a bottle. “This is one of the perfumes she makes. But I’m not going to tell you what it does. You’ll have to guess.”
He tried to follow along, but the woman wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. She sprayed some on her wrist and giggled. He checked his watch again. He probably should go get some lunch, but he’d have to do it quickly.
“Here.” Bella stuck her wrist under his nose. “Smell this.”
He sniffed. It was strong. But it smelled sweet and spicy and delicious. “What is that?”
She shook her head, her ponytail swinging from side to side. “Not telling.” Then she sprayed a bunch more all over herself. “You’ll have to ask me later.”
Logan frowned. Half the time he didn’t understand her chatter. This was one of those halves. He was tired. And hungry. And her ponytail was so swishy. The color of her hair reminded him of French fries. “I think I do need to get something to eat.”
She perked up. “Come get a burger with me.”
Great idea. A burger was exactly what he wanted. He’d fix the foundation posts when he got back. “Let me just go to the truck and grab a clean shirt.”
She followed him all the way to his truck, chatting away. By the time they reached the diner down the road, Logan knew all about her friend’s neighbor’s underage son’s speeding ticket. Or was it her friend’s son’s underage neighbor? It didn’t matter. What did matter was that her perfume was so strong, it filled his truck and started to give him a low-grade headache.
A chatty half hour later, Logan finished the last bite of his second cheeseburger deluxe, drained his soda, and leaned back in his chair. God, that was a good meal. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he’d been. Next time he wouldn’t skip breakfast.
Bella rambled on about office gossip, and he tried to make the occasional correct noise to indicate he was listening. If he just repeated the last word or two of her run-on sentences, she seemed content.
“So then Jason over in accounting, not Jason T. but Jason A.,” Bella was saying.
“Jason A.,” Logan repeated.
“Yes, he told Julie that if she didn’t like the way he wrote the report, she could write it herself. Then he said her reports were so juvenile, she might as well write them in crayon.”
“Crayon,” Logan repeated.
“I know, right?” Bella giggled and sipped her pink milkshake. It smelled like strawberries. Maybe he’d order one of those. A nice, creamy shake sounded really good right now. He checked his watch. It was getting late. He needed to go.
“So,” Bella said, leaning closer. “Wanna go to the beach on Saturday?” That perfume she’d sprayed earlier wafted across the table, clashing with the sweet scent of her milkshake.
Logan shook his head no, but found himself saying, “Okay.” He watched in fascination as the last of the strawberry shake disappeared up the straw and into her mouth.
She giggled again, licking her lips. “I gotta get back to work. Tell that girl in your shop I said thanks.”
“For what?” Logan asked, searching for the server. Maybe he could get a quick milkshake to go.
“Never you mind,” Bella said. “I’ll tell you later.”
On the way back to the shop, her perfume and nasally voice made his head ache even worse. By the time he waved her off and entered the back door to the kitchen, he went straight for the first-aid kit.
Juliette came around the corner in her faded, patched overalls—the kind of thing a farmer would wear. Her hair was in a messy knot on top of her head, with some wispy pieces falling around her face. There was a smudge of dirt on her neck, and what looked like a fistful of weeds sticking out of one pocket. She wasn’t even wearing shoes, for god’s sake. She just stood there leaning against the doorjamb with one foot on top of the other, her delicate toenails painted an unusual shade of blue. There was a mischievous glint in her eye and a sprig of leaves tangled in her hair. Everything about the woman was a mess. A radiant, beautiful mess.
Logan tore his gaze away and fumbled for the Tylenol.
“How was lunch?” she asked.
“I’ve got a headache.” And, somehow, a Saturday beach date with Bella. How had that happened? He filled a glass of water from the sink, rubbing his aching temples. The scent of that perfume still permeated his brain.
Juliette walked to the corner cupboard and drew out a vial of clear liquid. There was a sudden gentleness, a depth of concern in the way she looked at him. “This will help you.”
He shook his head. “No thanks.”
“But this is ten times more effective than that. It’s a pain reliever. I made it.”
“This is fine.” He popped the Tylenol and drank.
Juliette turned stiffly and put the vial away. “What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll turn you into a frog with my wild voodoo magic?”
He set the glass on the counter and glanced sideways at her. “Would you?”
“Of course.” She walked over to the sink and started washing her hands. “That was my special Frogman elixir. I was hoping you’d fall for it, but you didn’t. Next time I’ll have to slip it into your drink when you’re not looking.”
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. The woman was going to be the death of him. She was as mercurial as spring weather. Sunshine and rain. One minute trying to help him, the next trying to poison him.
“First of all, I don’t buy into that magic potion stuff,” he told her.
She rinsed lemon-scented soap from her hands and reached for a towel without looking at him. “Suit yourself.”
“And second, I just spent an hour breathing in that perfume you made and now I feel sick, so I’d rather stick with what I know.”
Juliette stopped drying her hands and glanced at him. “You didn’t like the perfume?”
“Not on her,” Logan said firmly. “Not at all.”
She dropped the towel, then stooped to pick it up. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. She put on way too much, I guess.” Why did Juliette look so bothered? Maybe she was really
sensitive about her bath products. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the perfume would be fine on someone else.”
She gazed at him as if he were a puzzle she was trying to solve.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She was standing close enough for him to see tiny flecks of green in her blue eyes. Green like all the plants she loved. Like the sprig of leaves still stuck in her hair.
Without thinking, he reached to pull it free.
Juliette started to lean away.
“Hold on.” He settled a hand on her shoulder. “There’s something in your hair.” He could feel the warmth of her skin underneath her flimsy cotton top. Hear the soft rise and fall of her breathing as she stilled. There was an almost palpable thrum of energy in the air between them as he worked the leaves free.
“There,” he murmured, looking down at her.
She didn’t look away, or turn away. She looked back, eyes half closed as though in a trance, lips soft and inviting.
With infinitesimal slowness, Logan leaned in, like he was the tide and she was the shore, and through no fault of his own, his body was drawn to her. It was as if the inevitability of them, coming together, was decided long ago by some force as old as time.
* * *
The bells on the front door jangled, snapping Juliette out of her momentary lapse of sanity. She jerked away.
What just happened? If the Desire perfume didn’t work on him with Bella, so be it. That just meant he never liked her to begin with. But this—whatever this was—between him and her? This was madness. It wasn’t the potion, because Holloway charms didn’t work on Holloway women. They only worked to help other people; that was the nature of it. So why was there this spark between her and Logan? The only logical conclusion was that their attraction was real.
She took several shaky steps back.
Logan didn’t try to follow, which was a good thing. If he did, she’d be tempted to finish what they’d almost started. What the hell was wrong with her? She couldn’t afford to get tangled up with him, of all people. She knew this. But clearly, he didn’t.
“We should get back to work,” she said, doing her best to sound calm and unfazed. “We can’t afford to waste time.”
She left the room without making eye contact and walked into the front of the shop. How to Be an Idiot, by Juliette Holloway. Seriously, what the actual hell? She just couldn’t trust herself to keep a level head around him. From now on, she was going to be strictly business. No more personal conversations. No more chats in the kitchen. Just no.
“G’day, mate,” Brock Templeton said in his sexy Australian accent. He stood near the entrance in board shorts and flip-flops, holding a slushy drink with a bendy straw. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”
“Oh.” She was still reeling from the almost-kiss with Logan in the back room. Had it been almost a kiss? Maybe she’d misread it. Either way, it had been something too close for comfort. From now on she was going to make sure he stayed outside and worked on his stuff, while she worked on hers. There was no reason for him to be in her space at all.
Brock casually approached the florist counter, glancing around at the hanging baskets and shelves of ferns. “So this is where mermaids hang out when they’re not at the beach.”
“Sometimes,” she said vaguely.
He didn’t seem to notice that she was preoccupied. Maybe he was just used to women being tongue-tied around him.
“Didn’t catch your number before you bolted, but I had one of my assistants look up the local flower shop,” he said. “That’s how I tracked you down.”
She could hear Logan moving boxes in the back room. Why couldn’t he just go? Having him close just confused her and complicated things.
She gave Brock her full attention and forced a smile. “So, you’re stalking me, then?”
“I guess I am,” he said with a laugh. “I can’t seem to get you out of my head.” His expression was so sincere, Juliette almost believed him. But actors were actors for a reason.
“So, now you’ve found me,” she said. “Now what?”
“Now I ask if you’ll go to dinner with me. I know girls don’t usually date their stalkers, but I’m hoping you’ll make an exception. I promise not to kidnap you and tie you up.” He took a sip of his slushy and added, “Unless that’s your thing.”
Before she could answer, Logan strode across the room like royalty. Back straight, head high, he didn’t even acknowledge them as he carried a toolbox to the front window.
She felt like a rubber band stretched too tight, like part of her attention was on Brock, but Logan’s commanding presence was pulling her in the opposite direction. If she didn’t get him out of here, she was going to snap.
“What are you doing?” Juliette said to Logan, careful to keep her voice neutral.
“Working.”
“I have time off Friday night, if you’re free,” Brock said to Juliette.
“I have to work here until six.” She frowned as Logan opened the toolbox, took out a measuring tape, and started measuring the window ledge. Irritation spiked. What was he up to?
“How about I pick you up at six-thirty, then?” Brock asked.
Now Logan was taking her potted plants out of the window and setting them on the floor. Juliette balked. No one moved her plants without asking. “No.”
“No?” Brock blinked in surprise.
“Oh, not you, sorry,” Juliette apologized. “Can you hold on for a second?”
She strode across the room to where Logan was dismantling her front window display. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “You can’t just come in here and rearrange my plants all willy-nilly without asking.”
“I’m not rearranging them,” he said, still pulling plants from the window.
She stomped her foot. “Stop. You’re ruining my display.”
He didn’t even bother looking at her. “I’m measuring for shelves.”
“I don’t want shelves in this window,” she said through gritted teeth. She grabbed two of the plants from the floor and placed them back in the window. “Go outside and work on the greenhouse. This is not your domain.”
Logan lifted the same two plants and placed them gently on the floor again. “If you don’t like it, take it up with my uncle.”
She clenched her fists and backed away. “Oh, I will.”
“Fine.” He turned his back and continued dismantling her window display.
“Fine,” Juliette ground out. She stomped back to the counter, barely managing to keep her expression neutral. Ten minutes ago, she almost wanted to kiss him, and now all she wanted to do was knock him on the head with a watering can. Not the plastic kind, either. The big, rusty metal kind.
“Trouble with the hired help?” Brock asked.
She tried not to glare at Logan’s back. “Yes, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“So, dinner then? Friday?”
“Sure,” she said loudly. “I’d love to have dinner with you, Brock.”
Chapter Eleven
Logan hammered the nail into the greenhouse post, doing his best not to think of feisty, infuriating women and the preening peacocks they chose to date.
“Mr. O’Connor?”
Logan slammed another nail home and turned to see a young man near the fence by the road. He had a shock of wavy brown hair, cut too long for his angular face, but he’d plastered some kind of pomade over it to make it stay behind his ears. He eyed the florist shop nervously.
“Can I help you?” Logan asked.
The kid—he couldn’t have been more than eighteen—shifted on his feet and tugged at the hem of his rumpled T-shirt. “I’m Kevin.” He glanced at the shop again and stepped further into the shadow of the fence line. “You told me to meet you here?”
Logan set the hammer down. Oh, hell no. This was not what he’d had in mind when he put out an ad for home improvement assistance. The boy was thin as a rail with no visible upper body strength. He likely didn’t know the fir
st thing about refinishing hardwood floors or rewiring electrical outlets.
“You’re the guy who answered my ad?” Logan asked. “The one with extensive home renovation experience who can start right away?”
Kevin ducked his head. “Yeah, that’s me.” His bony shoulders rose a few centimeters and curved inward, as if he were apologizing for being himself.
Logan searched for a way to let the kid down easy. He didn’t want to turn him away, but his house needed serious work. Parts of the downstairs laundry room needed to be gutted, and he had to install a new sink. He needed a skilled handyman who could work alongside him to get the job done quickly. With his uncle’s shop remodel taking up all his time during the day, he only had evenings and partial weekends to work on his house. He’d make better time with someone to help, but not with a scrawny kid like this.
Kevin seemed to gather his courage. “I know you were probably expecting someone more . . . just more. But I can do a lot. And I learn quick. And I’ll work weekends, or whatever.”
“I appreciate it,” Logan said. “But I need someone who’s a little more senior for this position. Someone with commercial contract experience working with retail buildings or custom homes, at the very least.”
Kevin’s face lit up. “I did my mom’s whole kitchen remodel with her last summer after my dad left. We put in granite counters, and I repainted all the cupboards.”
That was a lot of work. If the kid actually did it right. “Did you use a sander?”
Kevin nodded like a bobble-head doll. “Yeah, for sure.”
“Did you hand paint the cabinets?”
“Better.” Kevin lifted his chin with pride. “I rented a paint sprayer.”
Logan tried not to imagine where he’d used the paint sprayer and the electric sanding equipment to work on the cupboards. Hopefully in a well-ventilated area like the backyard.
“It turned out really good, too,” Kevin continued. “And when we finished the kitchen, my mom said she always wanted a blue bedroom, so I painted the walls in her room for her. And then I painted the rest of the downstairs.”
“Did you tape everything off?”