by Olivia Miles
And because of course it was fine that as he slipped into a seat next to Rosemary, he—God help her—winked.
Brett tore off a piece of cellophane tape and extended it over the rim of the vase, imitating the crisscross pattern Ivy so expertly—and neatly, he marveled—demonstrated for the group. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, waiting to see if she would look up, catch his stare, but she seemed determined to avoid him as she went through her instructions in that flustered little way of hers, her cheeks flushing every time she reached a new point on her list.
God, she was cute. Her auburn hair was swept off her face in a low ponytail, revealing her long, graceful neck and highlighting her delicate jawbone. But it wasn’t just her sexy appearance that caught his interest. Ivy was in her element, and he loved seeing the way her eyes shone as she walked the group through the steps.
A knock at the closed door jarred his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder to see a tall, well-dressed man standing behind the paned glass door, grimacing in apology as he hesitantly waved. Turning back to Ivy, Brett watched with a growing frown as her face broke out in an ear-to-ear grin and she stood to cross the room just as the man entered.
“I’m not too late, am I?” he asked.
“Never!” she exclaimed, and, to Brett’s horror, flung her arms around the man’s neck.
Brett glowered at his glass vase and the stubby strips of tape that zigzagged over the opening. It had been a stupid idea to come here. When he’d seen the ad at the gym, he’d seen more than a flower arranging class, which, obviously, he had no interest in. What did interest him was the woman running it. She interested him a lot. More than she should, judging from her reaction to the preppy guy who was cozily pulling a chair over near hers.
He listened with a growing heaviness in his chest as she talked about greenery versus flowers and something called fillers, which was when he stopped listening and started focusing on the man across from him. The man who had no trouble casually setting his hands on Ivy’s wrist when he had a question and whose endless stream of whispered comments sent a peal of Ivy’s laughter sailing across the room.
He gritted his teeth and shoved some leaves into one of the square spaces between his tape strips.
Yep, a big, big mistake. He should have stayed at the hospital, asked for another shift, or joined Mark for that beer he suggested. Instead he was here, with half the women in Briar Creek, watching the woman he had just kissed flirt shamelessly with another man.
Maybe she was trying to tell him something. As if running off the other day hadn’t said everything. He’d crossed a line. Told her things he hadn’t dared to admit to anyone. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
No, the worst of it was that he didn’t want it to stop there. He wanted to keep going. To kiss her. Tell her everything. To get… close.
She’d given him an out. If he was thinking clearly, he would have taken it.
But he wasn’t thinking clearly. He was in a flower arranging class discussing the merits of baby’s breath, for God’s sake.
“Making that for your mother?” his aunt Rosemary crooned.
“What?” He scowled as Ivy’s special friend cracked a joke that sent the entire table into a roar of laughter. He was so angry, so mad at himself, so… jealous, he realized with a start, that he hadn’t even heard what was said.
“I asked if you were making the bouquet for your mother. I told her to join me tonight, but she had to work at the diner.”
Brett frowned. It bothered him that his mother was choosing to stand on her feet rather than sitting here chatting with friends and… that preppy guy with the perfectly straight teeth and fresh haircut. He knew it wasn’t for money. She’d bounced back years ago from the strain his father had left her in, even with all the medical bills. He told himself that if she was happy at Hastings, then she should do it, but he still wished she would cut back.
“Yes,” he said decisively, “these are for my mother.” Because really, who else should they be for? A week ago he might have said Ivy, but that was crazy talk.
About as crazy as the unopened email from the hospital in DC.
Ivy smiled with encouragement at the finished arrangements scattered around the table, resisting the urge to fix half of them. It was a fine first effort, she told herself, and really, it justified why people paid her to do what she did. Anna’s had turned out nicely, which didn’t come as a surprise given her creative eye and touch of perfectionism. Rosemary, Grace, and Kara all followed instructions well, and Mrs. Griffin took things to a bigger scale, resulting in quite a dramatic piece.
And then there was the rather sad, lopsided, and half-dead-looking thing that belonged all to Brett.
And damn it if that didn’t endear him to her even more.
“Nice effort,” she said, almost managing to look him in the eye. Hoping to keep the tone light, she motioned to a broken tulip head and said with a grin, “I hope you’re a little more precise with your scalpel, Doctor.”
He grunted something of a response as he shifted into his coat, and Ivy opened her mouth, compelled to say something, but her mind went blank. What was there to say? To bring up the kiss would be awkward at best, and chances were he was probably just here to make sure she hadn’t yet again taken any notions from it.
Instead, she turned to Darren, who, though he’d arrived late, had succeeded in making the most exquisite arrangement of the group.
She eyed the perfect symmetry of the flowers and joked, “I hope you don’t have any plans to open a flower shop anytime soon, or I’ll be out of business.”
He swatted her arm playfully. “Nonsense. No one can compete with you, darling.”
From across the table, Ivy thought she caught Brett scowl.
“Well, I’m just glad you could join us,” she continued to Darren, trying to focus on her friend and not on her sort-of friend who was looking less than happy at the moment. “Hopefully Robby can make it next week.”
“Let’s just hope this arrangement makes up for me ditching him to come here.” Darren gave a conspiratorial grin. “He’s the only person I know who manages to catch a summer cold every year, and tonight of all nights. I said, honey, I’m sorry you’re sick, but here’s a stack of tabloids and a bowl of chicken soup. I have important business to attend to!”
Ivy laughed and caught Brett’s gaze as he stood a few feet away, seeming very interested in her conversation. For lack of anything better to say in the moment, Ivy was grateful to have an opportunity to play hostess.
“Oh, I don’t think you’ve met. Darren, this is Brett Hastings. Dr. Brett Hastings,” she corrected herself. “This is Darren. He and his partner moved to town last year. He sold my mother’s house.”
Darren held out a card and pressed it into Brett’s palm. “Have you found a place yet?”
Brett stared at the card and then glanced at Ivy. “I’m in temporary housing for the moment.”
“Perfect.” Darren tapped his card. “I’m the best Realtor in town. Well”—he slid Ivy a glance—“the only Realtor in town. When you’re ready for something more permanent, call me.” With that, Darren gave Ivy a fleeting peck on the cheek and, clutching his arrangement, caught up with Rosemary at the door. He paused only briefly to turn back and mouth “Cute!” before pushing out into the summer night.
Ivy managed not to roll her eyes. Did everyone have to point out the obvious? Of course Brett was cute. She wasn’t blind! He was too cute. And that was just the problem.
She felt his eyes still on hers. There was a glint to them and a grin she might go so far as to call mischievous. “What?” she asked warily.
“I just thought…” He shrugged, barely able to suppress his grin, and that’s when it hit her. He’d thought that Darren was flirting with her. And she with him. Maybe even that there was something between them.
“Oh, you thought… Darren. We’re just friends.” She laughed in realization, happy to find a release for the nerves that were bu
bbling inside her, but her amusement was cut short by an emotion far more powerful.
It was something in his grin, in the steady depth of his gaze, and the way he lingered in the shop long after everyone else had already said their goodbyes and gone home for the night. The laugh, while genuine, wasn’t one of amusement as it had been with her. No, it was, if she dared say so, almost one of… relief.
And if she didn’t know better, she just might think that Brett had been… jealous.
If she didn’t know better.
CHAPTER
22
It was late, not that Brett minded—he was used to strange hours. The sun had long since faded behind the Green Mountains and the lampposts glowed in the dark, illuminating the quiet street. Brett glanced to the left, knowing he should say goodbye, get in the car, and go back to the carriage house, but right now, the thought of sitting in that empty place, with only the television to keep him company, seemed about as unappealing as fishing another piece of food from a curious child’s nose. Here, with Ivy… this is where he wanted to be. Even though everything in him was telling him he shouldn’t be here at all.
“I’ll help you clean up,” he offered, seizing a legitimate excuse. The folding table was still in the middle of the room, covered with leaves and stems and the occasional broken flower, which he guiltily realized had been his doing.
Ivy slid him a knowing smile. “I knew you didn’t like flowers, but did you really need to punish them?”
Brett barked out a laugh. It felt good. About as good as it felt to be in this quiet shop, alone with Ivy. He raked his gaze over her as she began brushing the clippings into a bin, feeling his body tighten and tense as he took in the curve of her waist, the cute little set to her lips as she concentrated on her task, and the hint of cleavage that made him long to do something he shouldn’t.
She’d run away from the kiss. Broken it off. Torn away in that beat-up car. She wasn’t interested.
But oh, he was…
“Why did you come to the class anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?”
He watched as she carried the bin around to the back of her worktable and then returned to the center of the room to pick up a folding chair. He took it from her instead, and after a brief flash in her big blue-green eyes, she relinquished it.
He’d folded two chairs before he answered her question. “I came in to see you.”
A flush of pink worked its way up her cheeks as she stared at him. “Oh?”
He set another chair against the stack and shrugged. “I didn’t like how we ended things the other day. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Ivy nailed him with a hard look as she reached for another folding chair. “I told you, Brett, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not hung up on you. But maybe you should stop trying to kiss me if you’re so determined to keep telling me there’s nothing between us.”
His expression didn’t waver. “What if I said maybe I wanted there to be something between us?”
She froze mid-task and then quickly recovered. The metal chair clanked loudly as it hit the others. “I’d tell you to get your head checked, because last I heard, you were hell-bent on telling me every chance you had that you did not want to pursue something with me.”
“And do you feel the same?” he asked, holding her stare. Her gaze was steely, defiant almost, but the little lift of her chin gave her away.
“I thought you wanted to be friends,” she said, but her pulse skipped with sudden possibility.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I thought you wanted to be friends. Then you try to kiss me. I don’t kiss friends.”
“Neither do I,” he said.
She seemed to consider this for a moment. “You had no problems kissing me at Grace’s wedding,” she pointed out.
“Yes, but we weren’t close friends. We just grew up together. It’s not the same. Now… we’ve shared things, Ivy. Things we haven’t shared with other people.”
She let out a sigh of exasperation and set her hands on her hips. “Then why did you kiss me that night?”
“Because…” He shook his head. Because he couldn’t resist her. Because, for the first time, something other than the pace of the ER was making him feel alive and excited. Because he’d thought it would be for one night. “Because I wanted to.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And do you always get what you want?”
His breath was heavy as he took her in. The curve of her nose, the slight parting of her lips, the light in her eyes. Her expression was still poised in question, or maybe, he thought with a jolt, expectation. His chest was pounding as he considered his options, but no amount of thinking through this was going to sway him one way or another. He wanted to kiss her. Taste her. Feel her mouth, hot in his. Run his hands over those hips and explore her soft, sweet skin.
He took a step forward, matching her expression. “You tell me.”
A small gasp escaped from her but was quickly silenced by the firm press of Brett’s mouth on hers. Unlike their last kiss, which had felt so tender, this time Brett was leaving no room for confusion about his intentions. She stiffened against his touch, trying to resist him, but pleasure pooled warm in her stomach and the space between her legs began to ache as he wrapped two arms around her waist and pulled her to his chest.
Oh, God. She wanted to fight this. The feeling he was stirring within her. The need for more. She opened her mouth to him, letting him in. He kissed her deeply, not giving her a chance to break away, and she wasn’t so sure she could, even if she wanted to. Her hands, which had been pushed off her hips by the strength of his arms, hung loosely at her sides, as if determined to stay out of this drama she was creating for herself, but, like her mouth, they lost the fight. She slid her hands up onto Brett’s arms, taking in every curve of his hard muscles, and up onto his shoulders as she leaned into him. His breath was heavy as he kissed her harder, and she parted her legs to let his slide between and press against the tightness that was building within her.
“What are we doing?” she asked when they finally came apart. She blinked up at him and resisted the urge to flatten his disheveled locks. I did that, she realized with a flutter.
“I don’t really know.” Brett’s voice was low and coarse. “But I like it.”
She firmed her mouth and smoothed her dress. Not good enough.
Turning to stare at the folding table, she felt her spirits begin to sag. She’d let him in again. Let him take her to places she’d wanted, to dream dreams that should have stayed in her unconscious. And nothing had changed. Men don’t change, Ivy. That’s what her mother had always said. When would she learn?
“Well, it can’t happen again,” she insisted.
“Oh no?”
She glanced back to see that slow, sexy smile. “No.” But even as she said it, her body was saying yes.
She reached under the table and starting fiddling with the legs, suddenly desperate to get the thing closed. To have the shop cleaned up and ready for tomorrow. To have Brett gone. Out of sight and, hopefully, out of mind. Only it was harder now, after that kiss, after knowing that he shared her secret, that he was somehow closer to her than most.
She reached lower, fumbling, and then stood back up. A rush of dizziness hit her and she set a hand on the surface to collect herself for a moment.
Brett was quick to notice. “What is it?”
She resented his sharp tone. He sounded like Henry. Overly concerned at the slightest little thing.
Then she thought of the reason why Henry always sounded that way. It was because he cared.
Was it possible that Brett did, too?
“I’m fine.” She brushed him away and went to reach down for a table leg again, but the blood rushed in her ears, and she knew it was no use.
It was late. It had been a busy night. And her blood sugar was low. She didn’t need to prick her finger to know it.
Neither did Brett.
“Sit down,” he
ordered, grabbing a folding chair from the stack and tenting its legs. He strode to the back of the shop, returning with a juice box and her handbag.
“I don’t…” She sighed. The truth was she did need, well, help. Help from Henry. Help from Brett. “Thank you.”
He nodded brusquely and watched her take a sip from the straw. Then, as she finished the juice box, he disassembled the folding table and carried it and the chairs to the storage room. She was just starting to slide one of the display tables back into place when he came back through the doorway.
“Don’t even think about it,” his voice boomed.
“But I know where it goes,” she protested. There was a very precise angle to these tables to allow for optimal visual presentation when a customer first entered the shop. She’d gone so far as counting the floorboards to know where the corner of each one went. “If they don’t get put back right, the room will be too cluttered and customers won’t be able to move around, and it won’t have the same impact.”
Brett was listening to this with forced patience, which she gathered by the slight flare of his nostrils. His hands were set firmly on his hips as he tipped his chin, staring her down. “Anyone ever told you that you need to let people in more?”
She gave him a long look. “You should talk.”
He shrugged and, grabbing her waist, gently pushed her away from the table.
She hated the thrill that simple gesture gave her.
Her body still warm from his touch, she stood back and verbally guided him to the floorboard where the left front table leg needed to be. “An inch to the left should do it.”
His brown eyes widened. “An inch?”
She nodded primly. “An inch.”
Muttering something under his breath, he did as he was told, and eventually, all the tables were put back in their usual places. Just to be sure, Ivy did a lap of the room.
