“I volunteer there, and they’ve lost a lot of residents lately. Some passed away. Some moved. So I had this idea to help drum up new business. A way to showcase the place for new seniors.” Okay, she should get to the other reason she’d stopped by. “I was…ah…also hoping you might be willing to help out with flowers? It’ll be a fun opportunity for us to get to know each other better.”
He stilled when she mentioned getting to know each other better.
“I mean, not like that. You know. For everyone to get to know each other better. You as a business owner to get to know some of the residents. And they can get to know each other. Not for…” Us, she finished in her head.
“Dean said you’re single.” Jase squinted his espresso-colored eyes in that way guys tended to do right before they dropped a mammoth pickup-line bomb. He’d never looked at her like that before, but she’d witnessed his pick-up line game before. It was strong. “You and your guy broke up.”
Dean was her friend Claire’s husband. Jase was friends with the significant others of her two best friends. Which meant they ran in the same circle, saw each other regularly. She’d chatted with him. Danced with him at their friends’ weddings. All that time, she’d been seeing Logan, so she had ignored any of the chemistry between her and Jase.
Logan. Ugh. They had broken up. But that had nothing to do with anything.
The lies she told herself were sometimes mammoth.
She’d been 100 percent into Logan. Certain that they were heading to a chapel with a white dress and forever bells. She’d been epically wrong.
“Logan and I broke up a while ago, actually. Why?”
“You look hungry,” Jase announced.
“Don’t do it, Jase.” She shook her head.
Oh, he acted so innocent, but she knew better. Knew what was coming.
“Do what?” he asked.
“Give me whatever line you were about to throw at me.”
His eyes danced. “What line?”
“You know what line.”
“Fine. Your loss.” He didn’t wink. He didn’t have to. He paused a beat. “You want to hear it, don’t you?”
She tilted toward him, just a touch. “I already ate. I’m not hungry.”
An English-muffin-sandwich thing about twenty minutes ago.
He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, and flashed another grin. “I’m thinking you look hungry because you’re the girl I’m about to ask to dinner tonight.”
A sigh escaped her lungs. Cue the horrible pickup line. She’d called that one. Still, this was new. Jase had never asked her out before. He was a flirt, but he was an equal-opportunity flirt. She’d never read more into it.
“In that case, you look like the guy I’m about to turn down.” She bit her tongue to prevent it from turning that no into a yes and toyed with the edge of the stack of posters.
The flash of teeth against his lips nearly undid her. Nearly. “I’ve been waiting for you to ditch your boyfriend.”
Well, she wasn’t the one who’d done the ditching, but he didn’t need to know that.
He straightened, standing at his full height. She hadn’t noticed quite how tall he was before. Tall and built and…nope. That assessment about summed him up.
Heather didn’t date cocky guys. Not anymore.
She had dated her fair share of players in the past. Mark, Ben, Craig…they all had a great time with her until they were ready to move on. She was nothing but a good-time-girl to them. Then she had started seeing Logan. Who she thought wasn’t a player. She’d gotten in too deep, and it had turned out he was the king of players. He’d played her, anyway. She had been certain they were in the kind of relationship that lasted. But what she’d thought was a relationship with potential was tossed aside after the newness wore off. He’d gone off to find his next conquest.
It ended. She swore off men.
And opened a cookie shop. As one does.
“Heather?” Jase stuck tape on the corners of the top poster.
“Hmm?” Her eyes met his again, because she refused to show weakness.
“You catching that?” he asked, his focus returning to the poster and the tape.
“Catching what?”
Poster in hand, he moved to the front window and pressed it against the glass, smoothing it before turning back to her. “Catching the little buzz we have going on between us.”
“A little… The thing is…” C’mon, Heather, be strong. You are the cookie lady now. You don’t date. You are all you need. That’s what the podcast she’d been listening to said to her over and over again. Mantra in hand, she slapped on her I’m-in-charge-here-buddy mask. “It would never work between us.”
The edges of his lips ticked up ever so slightly. “You can’t know that.”
Oh, she knew.
He sauntered toward her.
Unwilling to back down, she stepped toward him. Expression firm, she said, “I can already see exactly how this whole thing would play out if we let it. You’d start with a horrible pickup line.”
“Guilty.” His hands fell to the belt loops of his jeans.
Her palm itched to press against the front of his tee, but she refrained. “Then I’d counter with a witty response. This time, my reply would be even better. Funny, intelligent…everything.”
“Now, that I’d like to hear.” Nothing but a foot of crackling air sizzled between them.
“Trust me, if I had said it, it would have been epic. You can’t repeat something like that. It has to happen in the moment.” She shook her head, the sleek ponytail she’d carefully arranged earlier brushing against the collar of her jacket.
“That right there is why we wouldn’t have worked out. I mean, you couldn’t even come up with a snappier reply.” He crossed his arms, the little veins of his muscled forearms flexing with the motion.
“Oh, I would’ve. It would’ve been the best response in the history of pickup line replies.”
“I don’t believe you.” The glimmer in his eyes lit up his entire face.
He was enjoying this exchange entirely too much.
Control. She needed the power back. “Trust would’ve always been one of your issues in our relationship.”
“Maybe you just couldn’t be honest with me about how you felt. That’s probably why we would have always argued.” He raised his eyebrows in a clear ultimatum.
Challenge accepted.
She stepped the tiniest bit closer to him. “Let’s say you threw out that awful line again. The one about taking me out.”
“I’m with you so far.” He glanced down to the floor in clear acknowledgment of her movement forward, but he held his ground.
“We’d banter for a good bit—”
His face sparked with humor. “Sounds about right.”
“Both of us would get that tingly feeling of attraction. You know the one.” So maybe she made her voice a little breathier than usual. Sue her.
His mouth parted, the exaggerated fullness of his lower lip apparent. “You have a tingly feeling?”
She shook her head and raised a hand. Not touching his chest like she desperately wanted to, but getting within millimeters. “That’s not the important part. Eventually, you would convince me to go on a date.”
“I’d take you to this great taco stand. I love tacos.”
“Despite that, I’d probably let you take me out again. And again,” she said, not willing to acknowledge the way she wanted to nip at his lip with her teeth.
He nodded. “I’m digging this relationship so far.”
“Eventually, you’d ask me to move in. I’d say no. You’d pressure me, even though I wouldn’t be ready.”
“What can I say? I wouldn’t want to spend a night away from you. No use paying for two apartments.”
She shrugged, dropping her hand. “I’d cave, and we’d finally move in together—”
“Do we get to hook up first? Don’t skip that part.” This time he moved forward, just a smidge.
She stayed put. She refused to back up first. “Of course. It would be awful. Sorry Speed Racer, but I need more than three minutes of go time.”
“That’s not what you’d say after you screamed my name.” He leaned forward, the whisper of his words brushing against her ear.
God, there wasn’t but a breath of space between them. She was all turned-on Heather, ready to throw her why-have-a-man-when-you-can-have-cookies resolve away.
His breath smelled of cinnamon candy and coffee, turning her knees effectively to melted butter.
No, she stopped herself. Back to the fictional breakup at hand.
Cookies were just fine for her. Better, even.
“Then we would be horribly irresponsible one night and, surprise, it’s a boy!” She waved her hands and grinned.
He frowned. “I’d never be that irresponsible.”
“It would happen. And then you’d insist we get married in a huge production I’d totally resent.” Now, she stepped to the counter to grab the rest of the posters.
“C’mon, baby. I’d tell you we could keep it small.”
She held the posters against her front like weak card-stock armor. “It wouldn’t matter, you’d be all kinds of grumpy when you stopped getting your full three minutes on top. Before you could say ‘honeymoon,’ we’d hate each other. The divorce would be sweet relief for everyone involved, and we’d never speak again.” She flashed him a goodbye smile. “Aren’t you glad we aren’t doing that?”
He followed her to the door, opening it for her. “That’s tragic. But we could still have an affair every once in a while, right? Let’s move straight to that. Avoid all the other stuff.”
Every alarm bell in her head rang out. He’s a player. He’s not a cookie. He’s a player. He’s not a cookie.
She patted the anchor tattoo inked on his bicep. “Sorry, sweetie. I think it’s best we let the breakup stick. I’ll see you—”
“Jase, thank goodness you’re here,” a female voice called from behind her. “I have a ribbon emergency.”
Jase tore his gaze from Heather’s, stripping nerves she hadn’t realized he’d exposed.
A perky cheerleader-type with a button nose breezed past Heather into the shop holding a floor-length formal gown. “Cassidy changed her mind about prom. She’s wearing green, so we need to match the ribbon to this dress instead of the purple one I brought in before.”
Time to go. Heather moved out the door but glanced over her shoulder at Jase. “So, you’ll help out with the prom thing?”
The dark intensity of his gaze held her in place. “Absolutely.”
Perfect.
“And, Heather?” He flashed a grin, and the fuzzy Jase-induced haze filtered over her vision again. “Sorry I broke your heart.”
Crap.
“You’ve got that wrong, bud. I did the breaking up.”
“See, that’s why it never worked. You always have to be right. Even when you’re wrong.”
Heather opened her mouth, but the now wide-eyed, green-dress-wielding customer caught her attention.
“Should I come back?” the woman asked.
“Nope. He’s all yours.” Heather hustled outside into the cool morning air before either of them could say anything more.
2
Chapter Two
Senior “Senior” Prom Countdown: 35 Days
They’d been trying to come up with a solution for over an hour. Over an hour of ribbons and lace and a persistent head cheerleading coach—Becca. Some days Jase missed his old life. The wife, the white picket fence, his job with the Navy defusing roadside bombs. He’d get all warm inside and sentimental. Then he’d remember that had all gone to shit and now he did the safe thing—swapping overseas operations for the single life and the safety of running one of his family’s flower shops.
When he’d left his job as an Explosive Ordnance Disposal Tech in the Navy and decided to get back in the family business, he’d done it because flowers were safe. Flowers didn’t blow up. When he’d divorced his wife? Well, he’d done that because she had insisted. She’d also found another husband. That had a lot to do with his decision.
Jase held another spool of wired ribbon up to the prom dress Becca had brought in for one of her students. The color was nearly spot on.
Becca shook her head. “That’s got too much aqua. What else do you have?”
Most days he loved his job. Today? Not so much. The crazies that came out during high school prom season could be just as unstable as a grenade with a half-pulled pin. Case in point: Becca.
He dug through his box of ribbon remnants, sending a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that he would find the right shade of green.
“What about a contrast?” he asked. “We could do black.”
“For a corsage?”
“Just the ribbon. Red roses, black ribbon, green dress.”
“No. That won’t work. It’ll look like gothic Christmas.” She tossed a spool into the bin. “This whole thing is giving me a migraine.”
He could relate. He held up yet another swatch of ribbon that was nowhere near the right shade.
Becca shook her head.
The thin fabric of the dress she’d brought along gave no inspiration. Nothing.
“Any luck?” he hollered to his assistant, Elizabeth, who was digging through boxes in the back. She’d arrived to work halfway through his search for the perfect ribbon.
He didn’t need to wait for her answer when he already knew the result—they’d been through every ribbon in the shop.
“Not yet,” she called back.
They’d even called his sister’s shop in Castle Rock to see if she had anything that might work. Negative. Maybe the answer wasn’t ribbon. Perhaps it was something totally different.
“What if I use leaves instead of ribbon—an orchid in the center and some kind of peacock feather where the bow would go? It’ll be one of a kind.”
“That would work,” she said on a breath. “I love it.”
“Great. I’ll write up the order, and it’ll be ready for Cassidy next Saturday,” he said with all the enthusiasm he could muster.
“Elizabeth, we’ve got it.” He raised his voice so she could hear as he scribbled the details on his order book and handed a copy to Becca.
He nodded to Elizabeth as she emerged from the back room. “Elizabeth will check you out.”
He had a funeral wreath to finish and a day of deliveries to prepare ahead of him. The front door opened, and his grandmother shuffled into the shop. Unable to help himself, he groaned. Babushka was on a mission, along with his mother and sister, to find him a replacement wife. They brought women through daily, most of them had been promised he would be interested in far more than just a good time. Most of their prospects already had an engagement ring picked out and the wedding dress on layaway.
The thought made his balls shrivel, just a little.
His family had gone a bit insane about the whole deal, no matter his attempts at neutralizing the situation.
“Hey, Babushka. You’re early,” he said.
She generally didn’t arrive until after noon.
“Never too early for vork,” she replied in her thick Russian accent.
If you could call what she did for the flower shop work. Mostly, she sat around gossiping with the other employees. Sometimes she went out with the delivery driver while he made his rounds. Back in the days when his grandfather had operated the shop, she’d done just the same.
Babushka grabbed a handful of roses and went about wrecking the symmetry of the wreath he’d been working on. Her slight frame seemed almost fragile, but he knew better. She was built from solid steel and, even as she’d aged, her fashion sense never changed. Her family ran flower shops. She wore all floral prints, all the time. Even if the prints clashed. Today was bright orange and neon green with a red silk scarf printed with roses. On anyone else it would just seem loud. On Babushka? Her style announced her presence.
&
nbsp; “Thanks for your help.” Becca lifted the obnoxious green prom gown and sashayed to the register.
“She vas pretty. Strong hips. She vill make good babies,” Babushka said, a bit too loud.
“For another man, yes, I’m sure she will.” He snatched the coffee mug he’d set aside earlier and took a long pull. His gaze trailed across the street to Heather’s cookie shop.
Heather, with her long brown hair held back tight in a ponytail, her shirt falling perfectly against her chest, her precise makeup. Not too much, just enough to amplify her big brown eyes and draw his attention to her lips. He wouldn’t mind running his palms over her waist, down her hips—
“I vill be dead soon.” Babushka cut straight through his daydream.
He slid his gaze from the yellow-and-pink shop across the street to his grandmother. “You’re not dying.”
Despite her continual insistence, his grandmother’s health was not an issue. Her eyesight, yes. She struggled with vision these days.
“Every breath, I come closer to death. Every breath, he passes me over. But soon I vill be gone and you vill be alone. You break my heart, Jason. I vill see you married.”
“I had a wife. Don’t need another.” Nope. Been there. Done that.
“Your vife, she vas no good. You need good vife.” Babushka nodded along with herself.
Whenever she brought up his love life, it never boded well. In fact, it usually meant a parade of women would soon slink through the door to try and convince him Babushka was right. Which meant: deflect and get the hell out of there.
“Actually, I met someone new.” Truth was in the eye of the beholder, and he had met someone new. Heather. Granted, he’d officially “met” her over a year ago. Details. Details.
“You did this? Ven?” Babushka paused wrecking his flowers to focus her attention on him.
“Things got serious so fast. It didn’t work out. I need some time to deal with it.” Truer words had never been spoken. Sort of. “My heart’s a little raw.”
“Who did this thing?” Babushka’s eyes narrowed.
“The lady who owns the cookie shop across the street. It’s over. Done. I’m going to lick my wounds for a while.” And that was how it was done. He’d bought himself a few solid weeks of heartbreak.
Just the Tip of the Iceberg: Mile High Matched Books 1-3 Page 28