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.
“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.
Babushka smacked his shoulder. “You did not tell me of this voman.”
He rubbed the spot where her palm had met his shirt. “Some things don’t need to be shared.”
“Your heart is broken?” Shit. She didn’t look like she bought it. “You vill swear this on the image of your dedushka?” She rummaged through the oversized purse she dragged everywhere.
“I’m not swearing anything.” He crossed his arms, ready to stand firm against his overbearing grandmother.
“Jason Mikhail Dvornakov.” She yanked the eight-by-ten photo of her late husband from her purse. Holding it out faceup so Dedushka glowered at him.
She wasn’t going to let this go.
He glanced to the image of his dead grandfather.
Fuck.
“Hand on Dedushka’s face.” Her eyes turned serious, her expression firm—as it should’ve been when pimping the image of her dead husband to manipulate innocent grandchildren.
“My heart’s broken, there’s no need to swear anything.” No need to involve dead relatives.
“You vill swear on your grandfather’s image vhat you say is true. Lies vill haunt you for your days. Vhen I die, I vill haunt you for your days. You vill be haunted.”
He had a suspicion that, whether he swore or not, Babushka would haunt him. Still, one did not swear on a dead person’s image without being totally honest.
Babushka picked up his hand and set it on the glass.
A chill ran through him. It was not the first time he’d been forced to swear on his grandfather’s picture. The last time he’d been eighteen and had to swear he hadn’t stolen a bottle of vodka for a party at Brek’s house. He hadn’t. His sister, Anna, had.
“I swear I am not ready for a relationship. My heart can’t take it.” There, that worked. Not a lie.
“Because of the woman across the street,” Babushka said, nudging him to say it.
He lifted his hand from the glass just enough so he wouldn’t be haunted on a technicality. “Yeah, because of the woman across the street.”
Babushka gave him a soft look he knew to be total bullshit. “Time is precious. I have so little.”
“Speaking of, any birthday requests or should I just wing it?” The family always threw a big shindig for her birthday.
She harrumphed. “I vill be dead by then.”
“So no card?” he asked. She’d been saying she was dying for years. She couldn’t see for shit, but otherwise, she was healthier than the rest of them.
“For my birthday I vish you vould find a voman to make you happy.”
He gave her his sincerest look. The one he’d practiced to perfection in front a mirror at fifteen years old. The one he saved for important occasions. The one he used for getting his way. “A little time and then I’ll be ready to try again.”
Now they were both liars. He slid his arm around her for a side hug, the frail bones of her shoulder a lie to the iron-plated woman who was his grandmother. Then he snagged the vase of hyacinths for the jewelry shop up the street and headed out to deliver it.
Successful deflection. Next: evacuation.
The mountain air was crisp like it always was right before summer. Spring would hold on for a few more weeks. This type of weather used to make him antsy, make him wonder what else the world had to offer. But he’d traveled. He’d seen the world. He’d had his skin sandblasted off in the heat of the desert and he’d strapped an oxygen tank to his back to defuse bombs in the Atlantic. The mountain air didn’t make him antsy anymore; now, it made his muscles relax and his mind clear.
He tugged open the glass door to the jewelry store, and his heart stopped beating for a nanosecond.
Heather.
He was definitely a leg guy. She was blessed by the angels in that department. Her toned calves outlined by tight jeans curved up and up and up to her ass…assets.
The object of his intense observation cleared her throat. He jerked his gaze to Heather’s.
She was looking over her shoulder, frowning like she’d sucked on sour cherry candy, clearly catching him checking her out.
He jerked his chin her way and gave his best you-know-we’d-be-good-in-the-sack smile.
She rolled her eyes.
Chandra glanced up from the posters. “Hello, Jason.”
“Good to see you, Chandra.” He grinned at his mother’s best friend. “I brought your flowers.”
Chandra skirted the edge of the jewelry case and plucked the vase from his fingertips. “Thanks.” She arranged the vase on a mirrored table near the diamond engagement rings.
Her shop wasn’t the typical jewelry shop with the clear cases and the soft carpets and the bright lights. Chandra’s shop was silver and white and pops of gold. Subdued lighting everywhere but over the cases. For those, she’d added sparkling chandeliers. No matter which way you looked, shit sparkled—in the cases, on the ceiling, even the walls had tiny mirrors edged tight together to give the appearance of bling. It was enough to make a man shiver just walking inside.
He sauntered toward Heather. “What’re we shopping for today?”
“Rings.” Chandra scooted around the counter once more, removing two boxes with rings. “Heather was thinking traditional gold, but I think rose gold goes better with her coloring.”
Heather slid her fingertip along the edge of the first small ring with little diamonds around the edge. “I like this one.”
“You should try it on.” Jase couldn’t take his gaze from where the tip of her fingernail traced the trinket.
“My niece is in town this weekend.” Chandra raised her I’m-in-cahoots-with-your-mother penciled eyebrows at Jase. “I told her all about you. She’d love to have a drink with you.”
“I’m off the market for a while. You know how it is when you get your heart broken.” In for a penny. In for a pound.
He lifted the little ring from the silk-lined box and held it out for Heather.
She took it, slipped it on her right hand. He couldn’t care less about rose gold and regular gold and skin tone, but that ring belonged on Heather.
“You were seeing someone?” Chandra asked, apparently perturbed she wasn’t in the loop.
“I was. Total whirlwind.” He played the innocent card—dash of heartbreak, sad eyes, big sigh. “We broke up this morning. Very sudden.”
He glanced to Heather. She looked up at him and rolled her eyes.
“You know what they say: when you fall off the horse it’s best to get right back on.” Chandra admired the ring on Heather’s hand.
“What do you think?” he asked Heather, his question having nothing to do with jewelry.
“I think when you fall off the horse, you should evaluate why you fell, so it doesn’t happen again. For example, did you say something to the horse that made it buck?” Heather fiddled with the ring, sliding it over her knuckle and back down.
“Maybe the horse is just sensitive with a bad temperament.” He shrugged, doing his best to keep his face neutral.
“Maybe the horse expects to be treated a certain way.” Heather pulled off the ring and ran her fingertip over the diamonds.
Chandra glanced between the two of them, eyes wide.
“Maybe the horse doesn’t know a good thing when she sees it.” He pressed his stance wider.
“Or maybe it has absolutely nothing to do with the horse.” Heather smiled the confident smile of an executive on Wall Street and tucked the ring back in the box. “I’m going to think about it,” she told Chandra.
“Sounds good.” Chandra put the box back under the glass. “I need to go help this lady with her repair for a moment. Holler if you need me.” She headed toward the other side of the room.
“Why’d you tell her we broke up?” Heather asked.
“Well, she’s friends with my mom, and Mom is on a tear for me to get serious with someone. My family gets a little nutty about that stuff. I figure our pretend breakup will buy me about three weeks of peace.” Four if he played it right.
She raised her eyebrows at him. “You know how crazy that sounds, right?”
He lifted a shoulder. “You clearly haven’t met my family. How goes the poster delivery?”
“Chandra’s going to help me with the dance. I think it’ll be fun,” Heather mused, eyeing the other rings. “You should join the committee.”
That was a negative. “I’m in for all the flower donations you need, but I don’t do committees.” He supported with cash and donations, but when it came to committees, he was no good. Too much talk, not enough action. Committees were his mother’s domain; she loved telling people what to do. Chairing a committee was the perfect pastime for her.
Blow Me Away: A sexy, friends to lovers rom com! (A Mile High Matched Novel Book 2) Page 2
