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?”
“Executive protection agent.”
I frown and he sees my confusion.
“We prefer to be called executive protection agents. But currently I think I fall more under the title of errand boy.” He extends a small envelope across the table to me, and my brain momentarily blanks when my gaze connects with the black ink of his butterfly tattoo so close to me. Something about it feels illegal. Like it’s so sexy that this man’s hand should be on a list of Most Dangerous Males hidden in a top secret filing cabinet of the FBI.
“I have no idea what’s in it,” he admits when I finally take the letter from him—careful to make sure our hands don’t brush in the process because I have no desire to spontaneously combust right here in my flower shop. “Amelia just asked me to bring it to you and for you to open it while I’m here.”
“Seems kind of odd,” I say, and Will just shrugs his shoulders—white T-shirt straining against his muscles as he does.
His eyes wander from me to the buckets of flowers against the wall before he tucks his hands easily into the front pockets of his jeans, turning away to explore the shop. I realize this is the first time he’s ever been in here. When he was in town last, he always hovered outside whichever establishment Amelia was in, only entering if there was a large crowd. But this is Rome, and there is never more than one or two people in an establishment at a time.
Even though I’m curious why Amelia would send me a letter via her bodyguard, it takes me a minute to peel my eyes away from Will and the way he’s taking in every detail of my shop. He touches petals and stems. He looks up, exposing the long column of his throat to look at the thick crown molding around the top perimeter of the shop. Taps his foot against the wide plank floors. I could watch him do this all day.
Instead of being creepy, however, I force myself to crack open the seal of the envelope and read Amelia’s handwriting. After quickly scanning her words, I promptly fold the letter and consider putting it in my mouth and swallowing so it’s never seen again.
“What’s it say?” Will asks, having turned around and, apparently, watched me read it.