Since our earth-shattering kiss at the shop, we’ve been nearly inseparable. I kept telling myself to be careful but being around her, I realize I never stood a chance. I have no clue where this is heading, but I do know I’m in far deeper than I should be.
I sneak a long peek at Ruby. She’s got paint on her face and is weaving daisies into a chain. We’re wearing flower crowns and she’s giggling like we found the inn’s hidden liquor stash. I can’t say I’m hating this activity.
“That makes the ten thousandth daisy I’ve seen this morning,” I say.
“Yours is crooked,” she says, nodding at the lopsided mess in my hands.
“It’s abstract,” I counter. “Artistic.”
It’s not. It looks like I ran it over with Nick’s truck.
She snorts loudly and something flips in my chest. I’m too old for flipping.
The arrangements we’re preparing will be kept in Nick’s industrial fridge until the cotillion.
My crown slips and Ruby reaches up to adjust it on my head. Her fingers brush my temple and my brain short-circuits. She’s so close. Too close. Too easy to imagine more.
But it can’t be. I’m closing the flower shop. The place she loves most in this town. Maybe it’s the joyful look on her face, or the ticking clock till Valentine’s Day, but the gravity of it all suddenly slams into me. I had ample time to tell her about the closing. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
“I—uh—should…turn on my car so it doesn’t freeze,” I blurt. “You know, since I’m up anyway.” Smooth. Very smooth.
Her smile fades a notch. “Sure. Yeah. Go check.”
I run upstairs, grab my coat and wool hat, then shove my feet into my boots, and rush out like a man fleeinga crime scene.
I make it all the way to my car before video-calling Logan.
His hair’s wet like he just got out of the shower after his early morning workout. “What on earth are you doing up at this hour?” Then, “You look weird.”
“Thanks.”
He eyes me closely. “Did you run again?”
The pitfalls of a brother who knows me too well. I’ve done it before.
“I didn’t run. I walked. Briskly.”
He groans. “Griff. Buddy. You like her.”
“That’s not—this isn’t?—”
“You’re wearing a sweater.” He grins.
I have to remember to button my coat. “Got cold, there was a sale,” I mutter.
I give up the pretense and press my forehead to the steering wheel. “I panicked.”
“So un-panic,” he says. “Go back inside. Tell her you like her. Stop being a sweater-clad coward.”
“I’m closing the shop, Logan.”
“Ah. You haven’t told her?”
“I will. I just don’t want to ruin Valentine’s Day for her. Let her have a few more days of Ruby bliss before I pull the plug.”
“Wow, you’re really serious about this woman.”
I lift my head. He’s right. Unfortunately.
