Practice Makes Perfect (When in Rome, #2)(15)
I try to edge around him but abruptly stop when I feel Phil’s hand splay out across my chest. I slowly look down at his fingers and every ounce of congeniality I feel dissolves. Now I’m fighting the urge to wrap my hand around his wrist and twist it behind his back. I hate that that’s my first instinct when I’m touched without warning. Part of me wonders if maybe I’ve been doing this job too long. But what else would I do?
I force myself to breathe and relax—because this is Phil, a man who has lived in this town his whole life and has likely watched Annie grow up. So instead of shoving him backward with a warning to not touch me again, I look him in the eyes and listen.
“Our Annie is a sweetie, you know?” He’s saying it in a cheery tone, but there’s an edge to it that I don’t miss. Unspoken words of warning: our Annie is a sweetie, so don’t mess with her, or I’ll cut off your balls with the chain saw we have on sale today for 50 percent off. Phil and his blue-and-white-striped collared shirt, khaki shorts, tube socks over his ankles, and dad tennis shoes is threatening me. Me—a highly trained executive protection agent who specializes in hand-to-hand combat, evasive maneuvering, and weapons training. And guess what? It’s working. Phil has the fatherly stare down that makes my blood curdle.
“I know,” I say honestly, because only one look in Annie’s soft blue eyes is enough to inform a person that she has kindness and empathy spilling out of her soul.
Phil nods. “I don’t want to hear of anyone—and I do mean anyone—hurting our girl. Understand?”
I respect Phil and his tube-sock-wearing self more, even if I am a little irritated at his insinuation that I would purposely hurt her. Or any woman. “I understand, sir.”
He pats my chest and removes his hand. “And wear a shirt when you jog from now on. You about made Gemma pass out into her clearance fabric bin this morning. Woulda never found her after that.”
One month. I can do this for one month. Thirty days. I’ve endured worse.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Annie
Heaven will undeniably be made up of flowers.
There’s nothing in the world that boosts my mood like standing in my flower shop and taking in a deep breath of flowers. The morning sunshine spills through the large, shop-front windows and kisses the rainbow of blooms bursting from every corner of my little shop.
I wish my mom could see it. She adored flowers—and was even the one who started the flower crop on our local farm where I buy my wholesale flowers. She’s the reason my shop is named Charlotte’s Flowers. And as strange as it sounds, I tried to match the space to my mom’s smile. Bright, open, welcoming, hopeful. I barely got the chance to know her, and yet I ache for her often. To know what she’d think of the wooden buckets filled with long-stemmed flowers lining the perimeter of the shop. Would she like the light wide-plank flooring? I think she would love the giant old farm table in the back center of the room I found for a steal at a flea market.
What would Mom say about the void I can’t seem to get rid of? Somehow I feel like I’ve betrayed her by opening her dream flower shop and realizing it’s not enough for me. It’s got to be that my heart is ready for love and marriage and a family, and when I get all of those things, I’ll be content. I mean, one look at a picture of my parents would tell you that they had everything they needed in each other. They exuded joy and peace. I want that.
Currently I should be finishing the bouquet James called in earlier that he’ll be picking up soon; instead, I’m busy with Very Important Work. (Sneaking in a chapter of the latest pirate romance I can’t put down.)
Coraline’s breasts were heaving above the tight bodice of her gown in a manner that drove Allistair mad with desire. Unable to keep himself away any longer, he snaked his arm around Coraline’s waist and pulled her tightly to him. “Coraline,” he whispered, his mouth only a breath above her own. “Please. I beg you. Allow me to—”
The bell above my shop door chimes, and I barely manage to not audibly groan from how annoyed I am at being interrupted right as Allistair was begging Coraline to let him…what? Kiss her? Make love to her? I need to know!
I look up, gasp, and throw my book over my shoulder, somewhere into the abyss of my storage room.
There is a man standing in my shop with a roguish smile and a sleeve of tattoos.
“Hi,” says Will Griffin looking far too amused. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No.” I answer too quickly.
He smiles curiously. “But you did just throw a book behind you, right?”
“No.” Again, too quick. I swallow and tell my skin to stop boiling. “But if I did—hypothetically speaking—it would be because I don’t want you to know what book I’m reading. So please don’t ask any more questions.”
His smile widens as he advances into the shop to stand right in front of my worktable. “I see. The illusive if-I-tell-you-I’ll-have-to-kill-you book. But you should know, it’s torture in and of itself not knowing what book it is.”
Gosh. Speaking of torture. It’s nearly unbearable to look right into Will’s eyes. It’s like staring at the sun. Too powerful for mere mortals.
I purposely change the subject. “What can I help you with, Will? Are you here for flowers or are you on bodyguard duty?”