The issue is that I’m so taken off guard by the way I feel—for no reason at all—that I don’t know how to make this work in my favor. Also, there’s the ethical dilemma of splitting up a couple. I’m a lot of things, some of which people would argue aren’t good, but I’m not that person. I don’t get between people. No matter how much I want them.
Perhaps that’s why I’m struggling.
My phone rings, and I stretch across the counter to reach for it. Huh. The studio. “Hello?” What kind of emergency does one have at a boudoir studio? They’ve never called me on a long weekend.
“Hey, boss,” Kyanne says. “There’s a tall hottie here looking for you. He wouldn’t stop pounding on the door until I answered it, and he’s not accepting that it’s your day off.”
“Who is it?” I ask, my heart already pounding.
“The man who’s been in here twice. Larson.”
Holy hell. Something tingly sweeps through my entire body. “Tell him to meet me at It’s Always Flower Day on Bane. Please.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
“Thanks, Ky.”
“Of course.”
I’m on my feet as soon as the call ends. Oh god. Oh my god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He sought me out. That means we’re two for two. At the very least, that means he feels something like I am, right?
I head to the bathroom and quickly wash my face. Since it’s my day off and I didn’t plan to go anywhere, I’m not at all prepared for an outing. Okay, minimal Dylan today. Serum, moisturizer, sunscreen. Toner and just a touch of concealer. A bit of rouge. Eyeliner. Do I look splotchy? A touch of balm with a slight shimmer. Setting spray.
God, I look like a plain Jane. Oh. Headband with a bow. Yep, that’ll do. Add some pearls. Or maybe just a chain. Yes, a delicate chain. That’s better.
I change out of my shorts and tank into a different set of shorts and a tank. This one is appropriate for others to see me in. I like the way it looks on me. Then, I slip into wedge sandals to give me just a bit more height. Oof. I need to repaint my toes. Perhaps I need something closed-toe since I have no time to paint them.
“No time,” I mutter. Hopefully, he just won’t look at my feet!
Sticking my phone into my pocket, I rush out the door, grabbing my key on the way. I come from the city of Minneapolis, so even though at least three-quarters of the residents don’t lock their doors, I almost always do out of habit.
“Dylan,” Marcell greets when I step into the flower shop.
I glance around. There’s nowhere for Larson to hide here. He’s far too big. Good. Now I have time to get myself under control.
“You look a little wild, boo,” Marcell says, tilting his head to the side.
“I’m fine,” I counter. “Just… waiting for someone.”
“Kellan just redesigned the gazebo out back. I can send them out.”
“Sounds grossly romantic,” I say as I head for the side door. “He’s a tall hockey player. You can’t miss him.”
Marcell grins and doesn’t comment.
The gazebo looks like something out of a fairy tale. As does this side of the shop. Like a little cottage in the woods, surrounded by the most amazing trees and foliage. The flowers are planted in the ground, but the trees and such are surrounded by planters and can be bought. Kellan is magic. He has a way of setting up these little spaces, giving everyone ideas about what they could do in their backyards.
I step into the gazebo and touch one of the potted plants. There’s a hidden price tag within the leaves. For a moment, I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of flowers, allowing myself to forget why I’m here and who’s coming. As cliché as it is, I stop and smell the damn flowers.
When I open my eyes, Larson is standing there. My heart practically stops. Has he always been this handsome the other times I’ve seen him? How does he make my heartbeat echo throughout my entire body, just by standing there?
I swallow. I should say something, right? Or is it protocol that he says something first since he sought me out?
As if through another dimension, Larson walks toward me. With each step, air is forced from my lungs. His hands grip my shoulders, and my feet nearly come off the ground as he presses his mouth to mine. I may pass out.
Chapter Eight
LARSON
