“On the contrary,” she maintained in a dry tone. “Since most of my customers are female, I’d venture to say the sight of you sprawled in bed, just as you are, would attract all kinds of traffic.” Nodding thoughtfully, she added, “Probably sell a lot of bed linen, too.”
“What’s my cut?”
“Nothing…because it’s not going to happen. Some things I don’t share.”
“Stingy with profits, are you?”
“Profits are negotiable. It’s lovers I don’t share.”
He nodded, conscious of her shift in tone from teasing to somber. “Got it—no one-night stands and no musical beds. That works for me.”
“Good.”
“Now all we have to decide is where we’re going to spend the rest of the night.” With great reluctance, he retrieved her T-shirt and tossed it to her. “My bed or yours?”
“Both,” she replied, pulling the shirt over her head. She caught the look of lecherous intent he shot her and laughed. “Before you get carried away, let me clarify that answer. Both beds, one of us in each. Something tells me it’s the only way we’ll get any sleep, and I have to work in the morning.”
Unfazed, he reached for his pants and pulled them on. He had no intention of spending the rest of the night alone, and he had the whole ride home to change her mind.
“Griff?”
“Yeah?”
“Why did you buy the garland?”
“Truth?” He glanced over his shoulder and saw her nod. “Because it suddenly occurred to me I ought to buy something before I asked you to do me a favor. To even things out, I mean.” He shrugged. “The garland just happened to be sitting there.” He hesitated, then somewhat sheepishly admitted the rest.
“You actually thought the price was twenty-five dollars?” she exclaimed, evidently incredulous.
“I thought even that was a little on the high side, actually, but figured it was worth it if you agreed to help with the birds.”
She shook her head with acute disdain. “Okay, that settles it. Bring back my garland, and I’ll refund your money.”
“Why?”
“For starters, because you don’t deserve it.”
“Don’t deserve it? What are you running here? A shop or an adoption agency?”
“A little of both, actually. And you are not my idea of a fit guardian for my garland.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Really? I’ll bet you anything the poor thing is still in the bag.”
“Anything?”
She met his glittering gaze head-on. “Anything.”
He shrugged.
“I’m right,” she exclaimed. “You haven’t even opened the bag.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” he argued.
“Of course it does. It proves you have no use for it and never did.”
“Not so fast. It so happens I do have a use for it. A very good use. One even you will approve of. I’m going to start a collection with it.”
“What sort of collection?” she enquired, her arms folded, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“A collection of useless, overpriced objects bought from beautiful women who show up in my dreams and do all sorts of incredible things.”
“What sort of things?”
“You sure you want to know?”
“I’m sure,” she countered, not looking it.
He grinned. “Then come home with me and I’ll show you.”
Chapter Ten
She had missed the chance to make love in a truck, but Rose did manage another first…her first all-nighter. At least, that was her take on it. Griff argued that since she’d catnapped once or twice, it did not qualify as an authentic all-nighter.
Something in his tone had suggested he spoke from experience, and plenty of it. Which would account for how appallingly accomplished the man was at the sorts of things folks did to pass the time in bed when they weren’t sleeping or watching the Tonight Show. He did not elaborate, however. Clearly, if she was foolish enough to want to know more, she would have to ask.
All morning she had been going through the motions of an ordinary day, chatting with customers, tallying sales, appearing perfectly normal on the outside. While inside, she wasn’t even on the same planet as everyone else. She was somewhere far away, someplace new and wonderful…and dangerous. For as long as she could, Rose wanted to hold on to the wonderful part without worrying about the rest.
Not that she was the type to go building castles in the air based on one night of great sex. Not even earth-shatteringly great sex—sex that was soft and slow, and sex that was hard and raw, and hit more notes in between than she had dreamed existed. Well, she might have conjured just one very modest castle.
Nosing around in Griff’s past could rob her of even that.
It was one thing to understand in theory that he was not the kind of man to want for female companionship, and quite another to know the precise number of women who had carved notches in his bedpost. Knowing would bring into focus the all-too-real possibility that she was simply one more. Therein was the danger, and Rose was in no hurry to confront it.
She did her best to ignore a little undercurrent of uneasiness. The ostrich-with-its-head-in-the-sand approach was not her usual style. But then, neither was falling into bed with a man before the first date. And not just any man at that, but a man she’d been certain was everything she did not want in a friend, much less in a lover. Suddenly, Griff was both. Could one woman be so wrong about so much?
There was only one explanation she could think of, and it sounded crazy even to her. However, that in no way detracted from her willingness to believe. A woman with her head in the clouds will grasp any straw handy to keep from falling—even the notion that there had been other forces at work last night aside from the obvious…that is, an uncontrollable, mutual torrent of lust.
Fate. Nature. Spirit. She didn’t know what to call it, only that the entire time she was in Griff’s arms, she’d felt a connection too profound to be merely physical, a heady sense that everything was, at long last, right with her world. Knowing the conventional wisdom about things that appear too good to be true, she had been prepared to wake up as Dorothy had, back in familiar surroundings that were colorless in comparison to where she had been in her dreams. But the dream hadn’t ended when she opened her eyes. She was more than a little amazed that the feeling of rightness was still with her. Amazed and joyful.
Admittedly, she was no authority on passionate escapades or the feelings they could inspire, but she did happen to be the world’s foremost authority on her own heart. She knew what she felt and she knew when something felt right. Being with Griff had felt as right to her as breathing.
She’d wasted years trying to make herself “right,” and worse, pretending things felt right when they didn’t. When her marriage vows failed, she’d made a new one, to herself this time—a vow always to be honest about herself and with herself. It had not been easy or quick, but she had managed to make peace with reality and accept herself—flaws, quirks, insecurities and all. Along the way she had also learned to trust her own instincts, no matter what.
Where men were concerned, her instincts invariably told her the same thing. They warned her to play it safe, not to get too involved, and above all, not to do anything that would put her heart at risk. She was proud of how much she had come to rely on her own inner voice. Only now did it occur to her that it’s not difficult to heed a voice that’s telling you exactly what you want to hear. The question was, did she have the courage to listen now, when her instincts—and her heart—were saying something very different?
She had a chance to find out, when Griff dropped by to see her later that afternoon. Unfortunately, instead of providing answers, the mere sight of him complicated things even more, making her feel both hot and cold, restless and content.
He paused just inside the door and ran his gaze over the shop, where a half-dozen or so shoppers were browsing and soaking up the coo
l, rose-scented air before venturing back out into the summer heat. When he spotted her sitting on the stool behind the counter, logging in a shipment of baskets from Nantucket, he stopped looking. His dark eyes warmed, and he broke into a smile that was light-years away from the arrogant expression he’d worn the first time he crossed her threshold.
He started toward her, moving easily with the cane. She’d been concerned about his leg, but when she broached the subject during the night, he’d simply kissed her until she shut up. Still, as the hours passed, it was impossible not to sense those instants when the pain gripped him.
Knowing he wouldn’t respond to sympathy or reason, she’d done the only thing she could do—seized control. The first time she had playfully but firmly rolled him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his hands on the pillow above his head, he’d looked surprised, but he hadn’t protested. After that first time, he hadn’t even look surprised.
She smiled to herself as he moved closer, already familiar enough with his habits to know it was not by chance that his path through the shop was along the widest aisles with the fewest people. The single exception was the slight detour he took at the end. Her puzzled expression quickly evolved into one of amusement when she realized the reason he’d gone out of his way was to check the price tag on the old bed.
As he glanced at it, his own smile deepened, and when he reached the counter he greeted her with a conspiratorial nod.
“Smart lady,” he said, obviously approving the Not For Sale tag she had attached to the headboard first thing that morning.
“I decided you were right, after all,” she explained. “Any price would be too risky.”
He didn’t offer a response right away, and Rose knew why. He was staring at her mouth, wanting to kiss her, and it was taking all his concentration not to. She understood because it was taking damn near all of hers to do the same. Between the memories evoked by the bed and fresh yearning that stretched between them like a magnetic field, the temperature felt as if it had shot up twenty degrees.
“You can say that again,” he said finally.
When her lashes fluttered with the effort of trying to recall what it was she had said that she could say again, he smiled and helped out.
“About the bed, I mean…and any price being too risky.”
“Right. At first I intended to simply triple the price I had on it, but then I thought of you and the hydrangea garland and how, for all I knew, a retired sea captain could wander in here at any moment and want to butter me up so I’d help him in his search for whale blubber bowls or old rudders or whatever else retired sea captains collect, and—” she waved her hand “—there would go our bed…I mean, the bed. That bed.”
“I think ‘our’ bed covered it just fine,” he informed her in a husky tone that prevented her from forming a coherent response. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“Do what?”
“Help him look for whale blubber. Or anything else. I don’t know as I like the idea of you running off to yard sales and auctions with other men. Especially not when you’re still on my payroll until you come up with those other two birds.”
“You do realize what an absurd conversation this is?”
He shrugged noncommittally. “I suppose…but absurd isn’t what it feels like when I think about you getting mixed up with some lecherous old seaman.”
“Don’t scowl,” she urged, patting his arm. “It will cause wrinkles and bad karma, and besides, I’m only interested in working for lecherous old airmen.”
“How comforting,” he said dryly.
“Which reminds me, I took care of all the details and the Purple Martin is on its way to you even as we speak. Here’s your credit card,” she continued, returning the card she’d used to make the purchase on his behalf.
“Thanks. I really do appreciate your help.”
“I know.”
As he slipped the card in his wallet, she flipped open her notebook and paused, pen in hand, nibbling her bottom lip, as she calculated the time she’d spent on the phone with Mr. Shippington.
“While you’re at it,” said Griff, “put me down for a few extra hours this afternoon—starting as soon as we can boot these folks out of here and lock the door behind them.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What can I say?” His shrug was more matter-of-fact than apologetic. “I want you all to myself again, and soon.”
“Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?” she asked, shocked, tempted, praying she didn’t blush, or worse, surrender what restraint she had left and go along with what he was suggesting.
“I’m talking about taking you for a nice, long ride,” he drawled, grinning unabashedly.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He dropped the grin and looked offended. “I’m dead serious. I’ll have you know I’ve been getting ready for it all morning…since the minute you deserted me.”
Rose folded her arms and bestowed on him a look somewhere between chiding and amused. “I’ll consider your wish to ‘take me for a nice, long ride’ a compliment, albeit a slightly adolescent one. But if you think I’m going to close shop in the middle of the day and climb into that bed with you, then—”
“Who said anything about bed?”
“You did. You said you wanted to take me for a ride—”
“In a car,” he interrupted again. His lips curved suggestively. “But hey, I’m more than willing to swap my idea for yours. Just say the word.”
Now she was blushing.
“You don’t have a car,” she pointed out.
He replied by pointing to the dark blue Buick Roadmaster parked directly outside her front window. The sun gleaming off its big shiny chrome bumpers produced a halo effect.
“That’s Devora’s old car,” exclaimed Rose, her embarrassment slightly diluted by a wave of nostalgia.
“You mean Gus’s old car.”
“How about if we compromise and call it their old car?”
“Deal. And it may be old, but it’s still got a lot of spunk. Now that I’ve cleared the mouse nests from the engine and changed the oil, that is.”
“My, my, you have been busy.”
“Damn right. Now, do you want to announce that it’s closing time or shall I?”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Why not? I can tell from the way your eyes are sparkling that you’re itching to come with me.”
“You’re right, I am. But I can’t just lock up and take off during business hours. I won’t.”
He scowled.
“I really am sorry, Griff. And I don’t blame you for being disappointed. You went to a lot of trouble to surprise me.”
“It’s not that,” he responded. “We can go for a ride another time. It’s just that I had the rest of the day planned and I…” He glanced around awkwardly. “I miss you.”
Rose smiled, pleased. “That’s very sweet.”
He scowled. Oh, no…another one of those damn S words, she thought, cringing inwardly.
“It is not sweet,” he retorted, keeping his voice low. “It’s…weird, that’s what it is. At least, that’s how it feels to me. Damn it, Rose, I’ve never missed anyone before.”
“Never?”
“Never. Not like this. Not in a matter of hours, for God’s sake. And…”
His obvious uneasiness with his own feelings touched her deeply. It was almost painful to watch him struggling for words. Her heart was close to complete meltdown when the unexpected flash of naked vulnerability passed, chased away by his irritable, and much more familiar, expression.
“And I don’t like it,” he concluded, glaring at Rose as if the whole thing was entirely her fault.
She waited for him to turn and stalk out. She hoped he would, in fact. It would give her time to mull all this over. It might even provide a reality check.
He did not walk out, however, at least not immediately. Instead, still scowling at her, he said, “So, wh
at time do you want to have dinner tonight?”
Now what?
He was behind the wheel of the Buick, somewhere just outside town, headed west to nowhere in particular. Everything was going according to plan except for one detail— Rose wasn’t with him.
It irked him that he’d shaved for nothing. Not to mention going to the trouble of tossing in a load of laundry so he’d have a clean shirt to wear. And he had polished his shoes—something that had once been as routine as saluting and brushing his teeth, but which he’d been boycotting for months. Just one more meaningless little way of thumbing his nose at fate. So here he was—clean shaven, clean shirt, shiny loafers, and alone.
“All dressed up and nowhere to go,” he muttered.
Nowhere to go and—he glanced at his watch—five hours to get there. It was just after two, and he wasn’t meeting Rose until seven.
Five hours. He tried telling himself that shouldn’t be such a challenge when you considered all the empty hours and days and weeks he’d filled since the crash. He thought he’d known all there was to know about staring down the tunnel of another endless day. He figured he’d had a handle on boredom and being alone. Instead, he was discovering that “alone” came in a size and flavor he hadn’t known existed until that morning, when Rose dropped a totally unsatisfactory kiss on his cheek and slipped from his bed to go home and get ready for work. Ever since, all he could think about was seeing her again.
When he’d killed all the time he could by showering and shaving and puttering around the house, he’d wandered outside. That’s when he remembered the Buick, and his grand plan was born. It had been more work than he anticipated to get the old buggy running, but he’d whistled the entire time he was lying on his back beneath it, years’ worth of black sludge dripping on his face and spiders crawling up his legs. Would Cinderella gripe about changing the oil if that’s what it took to turn the pumpkin into a magic coach? Maybe, Griff decided. Women were very unpredictable. He only knew he would put up with worse than spiders and sludge if it meant seeing Rose a few hours sooner.
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