Page 3 of Forbidden Love Still Blooms

There's no traffic to stop him. It seems every other car gets out ofhisway, not daring to block this man's path. He doesn't look away from me. His hands remain on his belt as he takes long strides, arms tight to his ribs, and it should look awkward. It doesn't.

The position of the sun causes his shadow to fall over me. My instinct is to do what I have done in the past when someone tries to intimidate me; I flex upwards, spine rigid, until I'm as tall as I can be. I'm struck by the fact I have to look up still. I'm not used to that at all. I'm the broad girl who high school gym coaches begged to play basketball while I staunchly refused. But Jordan is broader. Jordan is bigger. And I think, even if he wasn't, he'dfeellike he is. Cocky energy radiates from him in staggering waves.

“Good morning,” I say.

He waits a beat. “Morning.” It's caramel from his lips to my ears, smoky and dark, like the center of a piece of amber sea glass scavenged from the sand. Have I heard him speak before? Not to me, but to anyone else?

I struggle to remember while clearing my throat. “How can I help you?”

He sweeps his stare around the displays, his frown never budging. “I need to buy some flowers.”

“Well, we've got those,” I laugh. He frowns harder and my laughter fades. “Are you buying them for the parade? We've got a nice deal going where you can get—”

“No,” he cuts me off. “It's for something else.”

I reel in some of my salesman smile. Jordan is stringent as a stone wall. I don't think my upbeat attitude will crack him open. “Okay, what's the occasion? Birthday? Anniversary?”

Jordan grimaces, the first hint of emotionbelow his somber mask. His hands drift from his belt to hang at his sides, partially curled like they wish they could grab onto something else. His fingers are thick, clean, free of any rings. I guess he's not married to Dezmond's mom. Wish I'd figured that out before suggesting the anniversary stuff. “How about you just put something together that I can carry easily.”

I scan his arms where his sleeves are choking his biceps.I can't imagine him struggling to carry anything.“No thoughts on color?”

“None.”

“Price?”

That gets the corner of his mouth to lift. “It won't be an issue.”

“Fine,” I stress the word. “It sounds like you're okay with me doing anything I want.”

“This is your job,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, “not mine. Isn't that the point of coming to you instead of wandering into a field and plucking the flowers while kneeling in the dirt myself?”

I doubt you've ever gotten a speck of dirt anywhere on your body.God, I want to say it! I wish I was a little more reckless and wilder because I would say it, just to see his reaction. He reeks of sophistication with an echo of broody angst. A matchstick ready to flare if someone creates enough friction. Jordan Hartford does not need muchto set him off.

Keeping my thoughts to myself, I give him a gloriously bright smile that displays tooth and gum equally, then I spin to face my crates of potted flowers. I'll make him a very special arrangement for his unnamed occasion. Something within his basic parameters of “no price point, just need to carry it.”

Bending over the red roses with their velvet petals, I shake my head, survey the carnations next, then finally stop at the hydrangeas. They're blue as the cove west of our town. Expensive, too. Normally I wouldn't pick such deliberately high-priced flowers, but if Jordan doesn't care, neither do I.

Soon I have a bundle of hydrangeas, yellow chrysanthemums, and dark irises woven together. What started as a financial revenge bouquet has morphed into a work of art. I clutch it close, my senses assaulted by the wild smells. I'm proud of what I made, even if it's not as gorgeous as what my mother can do. She calls me an artist, but we have different mediums.

“Here you go,” I say, offering him the arrangement. “That'll be one hundred dollars, please,” I add cheerfully.

Jordan is unmoved. He flicks his eyes from the flowers in my hands to the crates next to me. “Add some white roses.”

My smile falters. “Oh, well, I can—if you want—”

“I want.”

Bristling at his tone, I reach for the roses, begin stuffing them into the bouquet. I'm caught up in the flush of irritation that makes my whole face hot, moving quick, a bit blindly, and the arrangement is looking worse for it. “I thought you didn't care?” I ask coolly. “You said I could do what I wanted because it was my job.”

“You did a poor job. Now I'm taking control to make sure I'm a happy customer. More roses.” He grunts the last words, like he's chewing them up, hating how they taste but eating anyway.

I'm done pretending his attitude is acceptable. Winding a blue ribbon around the stems, I tie a hasty bow. “Here.” I shove the over-stuffed arrangement into his chest. “Bad news, now it costs two hundred and fifty dollars. Good news is we accept all major credit cards. Thanks for shopping at Windy Gardens! Bye bye now!”

Jordan's face, so stoic this whole time, screws up when I slap the flowers against his chest. On impulse he fumbles to grab them by the stems. “Fuck!” he snarls, recoiling away, half-stepping into the street as the flowers spill to the ground. There's a ruby-red dot of blood growing on the tip of his thumb.

Right. The roses. I missed more thorns than I thought.

“Oh my god, I'm sorry!” I gasp, hands in the air, unsure what to do. “Let me get you a bandage!”

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