Page 52 of The Floral Arrangement

While waiting for Roz, I examined the books lining the walls of her study.Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln; Playing to Win: How Strategy Really Works; Real-Time Leadership: Finding Your Winning Moves When the Stakes Are High. Yikes, they sounded dry. Roz’s steps echoed down the hall and she appeared in the door frame, dressed in yet another pair of black tailored pants and a crisp white shirt. My heart skipped a beat. As impractical as her clothes were, Roz could really rock a suit.

We headed over to the farmhouse café. Roz nodded at the young man behind the counter, who rushed out with menus and a jug of water, beads of sweat on his forehead as he handed his boss a menu with shaking hands. Poor guy.

“Ohhh,” I said, perusing the menu. “I see there have been some changes since I came here last. After Fred’s rave review, I think I’ll get the fritters.”

Roz’s brow furrowed. “Let me check something. Tom, can you come over here, please?” She waved at the poor server, who hurried back over to our table. “Do the fritters have pineapple in the salsa?”

“No, no, they don’t. It’s mango, ma’am, not pineapple.”

“You don’t need to call me ma’am, Tom.”

“Sorry, m—I mean Roz.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Um, are you ready to order?”

We gave Tom our orders, and he scurried away again.

I took a sip of water. “Thanks for checking about the pineapple.”

“Well, I don’t want you to collapse in my café. Not only is it a liability issue, but I need you to help me buy these clothes.” Roz straightened her knife and fork.

I chuckled. “Of course. I’ll wait till I’m out of your café and you’ve gotten a new wardrobe before I mess up your day.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Roz’s eyes locked on mine for a moment and a zing of electricity jolted down my spine.

I stiffened.Not again. This was a convenient business arrangement—nothing more. If she wanted something more, she wouldn’t have just disappeared without a trace that night at Pryde. The memory of sitting at the bar, nursing my drink and waiting for her to reappear shot through my mind. Why had she disappeared that night?

I was tempted to ask her. But was it worth risking the tenuous equilibrium we appeared to have reached to uncover the answer, especially when I was almost certainly not going to like the answer? She’d likely decided she just wasn’t that into me, or she was swept off her feet by another, more experienced woman while I was sitting on the toilet hyping myself up. No, I’d leave asking her about that—and demanding my t-shirt back—until it would be easier to avoid her. We were, after all, going to be stuck fake dating each other for at least another week.

My pineapple-free fritters and Roz’s burger arrived.

I cut off a piece of fritter and popped it in my mouth, savoring the fresh herbs and juicy corn kernels. “Oh, this is delicious.”

“Good, I’ll let the chef know that you approve.” Roz bit into her burger, chewed and swallowed. “So, where should we go shopping?”

“There’s a Farmer’s Own twenty minutes away. It should have some decent farming clothes.”

“The name sounds appropriate. I’m in.” Roz sunk her white teeth slowly into her burger again and I averted my eyes. How did she even make eating a burger attractive? This shopping trip was definitely a bad idea.

I spent the entire drive staring at the road, relieved I had something to focus on that wasn’t Roz and her distracting face. I pulled into a parking spot and turned off the ignition.

“We’re not going in there, are we?” Roz asked, her eyes wide.

I checked the large sign on the storefront to make sure I’d driven us to the correct place. Yep, it was Farmer’s Own. “Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

“It says ‘Guns, Ammo.’” Roz pointed to the writing under the sign.

“Oh.” I grimaced. I’d forgotten it sold firearms. It did look a little intimidating. I waved my hand through the air. “It’ll be fine.”

“Perhaps we could go to an Anthropologie instead?” Roz sunk farther down into her seat.

“Roz, real farmers don’t shop at Anthropologie. If you want to convince Fred you’re up for the job, you need to get some heavy-duty farming clothes.” I leaned over and released her seatbelt.

Roz slipped out of the car, moving at a snail’s pace. “I knew we should have taken my truck. There’s no way these gun dealers are going to take us seriously with this ridiculous car.” She glared at the spray-painted flowers.

“Stop being so dramatic,” I said, hooking my arms through hers and pulling her along. “You’re making it sound like we’re going to do an illegal arms deal or something. We’re just getting some clothes. We’ll stay well away from the guns.”

Inside, we scanned the large store for the clothing section. There were only a few customers, and they all seemed to be middle-aged white men. We certainly did stand out—I doubted they got many androgynous women in immaculately tailored business suits or women in floral dresses.

I spotted a sign sayingWomen’s Clothesin the far corner of the store, thankfully well away from the firearms. “Ah, here we go.” I strode over to the clothes. “Now, these would be perfect.” I held up some navy-blue bib overalls, fairly confident I’d guessed Roz’s size correctly. “They’ll stand up nicely to mud and manure management.”

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