Page 4 of Forbidden Love Still Blooms

“No,” he says simply.

I freeze up, my hands still hovering from my uncertainty. “But you're bleeding.”

“It's nothing.” Jordan puts his thumb to his lips. I spot the gentle swish of his tongue before he sucks away the blood. It's a strange sight … and stranger how I'm fascinated by it. He levels his green eyes on mine, holding my stare, saying nothing as he watches me watch him.

Then his thumb pulls away, his lips shaped in a pucker that melts into a smirk. “Did you mean to stab me?” he asks.

That turns my brain back on. “No! I swear!”

“Hm.” It's a gentle sound. It's all he gives me before he crouches at my feet, gathering the ruined bouquet flower by flower. “Then I guess I'll forgive you. This time.” He looks up, the sunlight dancing over the lines in his handsome features. I taste the vibration of my heart as it gives a smallthump.“You're that Jones girl, aren't you?”

“My name's notthat Jones Girl.It's Lorikeet.”

“Like the bird,” he states, not waiting for me to confirm it. He stops collecting flowers, still crouching at my feet. I should feel in control; I have nothing to fear from this man. He knows nothing about me. Nothing that matters. “I'm Jordan Hartford. You might know my son.”

“Dezmond, yeah.” Though I don't really know him. One bad encounter is all my memory can dig up. “He has a reputation around town.”

Jordan looks away, rising to stand with the flowers clutched in the crook of his arm. He ignores my comment, and now we both have topics we want dropped like burning coals from bare hands. But whatever guilt I feel for bad-mouthing Dezmond in front of him, it pales next to the part of me that knows I'm right. Jordan's twenty-two-year-old son spends his days getting wasted, brawling with gangs, and sleeping at the local jail. I've heard he's there so much he has his named carved into one of the beds.

“Here,” Jordan says, fishing something from his pocket. He passes me three crisp hundred-dollar bills. “For your service.”

I give the bills a light shake. “Hold on, let me get change from the register inside.”

As he turns his body partially away, angling towards the bakery, I notice a slim notebook and pen sticking out of his back pocket. He speaks without looking at me. “Did I ask for change?”

I’m astonished by the casual way he's thrown this sum of money at me, proving his point that he didn't care about the bouquet's cost. Speechless, my tongue is heavy and feels like it is pinned down, unable to shape a simple vowel. Jordan enters his car, flicks his sunglasses over his eyes, then drives down the street. Just like that, he's gone.

Spreading the hundreds in my fingers, I count them again. My mother is going to be thrilled at the sale. More cars arrive, parking along the sidewalk, ready to stroll up with shopping lists. I need to get my head straight. Get back to work.

Something on the ground catches my attention, standing out starkly among scattered white rose petals. The remnants of the flowers that tumbled to Earth, and though collected carefully a second time, were still damaged. They'd never be as beautiful as they were before a simple mistake.

One drop of red. It's all I can see.

Jordan's blood.

Chapter 2

Thejinglingdoesn'tstop.The bell rings constantly as people flow through Windy Gardens like fish along a stream. Our entire stock is depleted an hour before we close, but we take down orders for the hopefuls wanting a chance at any deliveries before the parade arrives.

Mom doesn't look strained, but when she bends down to set an empty crate in the backroom, her groan tells a different story. “Go home,” I insist. “Rest, eat, sleep, have a drink, anything to get you out of here before your spine cracks.”

“I'm fine, Lori.”

“You're not. What's the point of having a healthy daughter if you don't let her take over so you can relax?”

That gets her to roll her eyes. “I'm in better shape than you are.”

“Arm wrestle me and see.”

“What?” she laughs.

Pushing the stacks of order-forms out of the way on the front counter, I peel my sleeve upward until my whole shoulder is bare. “You heard me.” My elbowthumpsonto the hard wood—I give her a sly grin. “Arm wrestle me. If I win, you go home and sleep. If you win, I'll endure you limping around all evening cleaning the store and prepping for tomorrow's rush.”

“Lori …”

“Oh, I get it, yousayyou're in better shape, but you're scared to prove it.” I make a show of starting to pull my shirt back over my skin. Before I finish my mom stomps over to the opposite side of the counter and slams her elbow down so hard it rattles the small, hand-made ceramic bowl full of change beside the register. It's one of my first pieces and easily ten years old. I wanted to sell it; mom insisted we keep it.

She narrows her eyes into slits. “Hope you don't cry when I crush you, honey.”

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