Rose Gardner's Florist (The Providence Street Shops #2) - Bonnie Dee Page 0,27
toward the altar if it were given a chance to grow. The only woman who had ever claimed his interest upon first sight, making his soul cry Her! was Miss Rose Gardener. The trouble was he could not pursue her against her wishes. It would be tantamount to forcing himself upon her.
Yet shouldn’t a man try to demonstrate his determined affections so a lady understood his commitment? There was no equation for this unsolvable math problem. He must simply live with it until the solution became apparent.
Chapter Nine
Rose stood in the center of Mr. Carmody’s conservatory and took a slow turn. She had planned the appropriate measurements for the beds and plantings, but now wondered how her vision could fit in this modest space. At the end of her turn, her gaze came to rest on the room’s owner.
Today, Carmody wore a shirt with sleeves rolled up, and no vest or jacket. In his casual attire and with his hair carelessly tousled, he seemed more boyish and approachable, not the grandly attired host from the other evening. She liked the suspenders striping his chest. An unaccountable urge to pull them out and let them snap back made her grin.
Carmody returned her smile, sunlight glinting off his glasses. Deep creases bracketed his mouth, drawing attention to nicely shaped lips. The man was breath-stealing when he smiled!
Her stomach did a little swirling dance like a chicken feather floating to land softly on the ground. Rose dropped her gaze to the copy of the blueprint in her hand.
Carmody moved close to study the plan over her shoulder. His body radiated heat that made her sweat—or perhaps that was due to the sun lancing through the glass panes. She thought she felt his breath caress her temple, although he was not standing that near. Prickling urges squiggled up and down her skin like ants, except not at all unpleasant.
She completely lost her train of thought as she attempted to point out features on the blueprint. “So you see…” She went mute, staring at the paper and trying to suppress her new feelings for Mr. Carmody.
Or were they new? They had begun to stir the night of the dinner party when his height, which at first she had likened to Frankenstein’s monster, no longer seemed alarming but alluring. Rose had noticed the difference in his posture that night, no longer stooping but with an erect bearing that commanded attention. She liked this confident version of Carmody, who did not mumble or stammer when he spoke.
“I see what you’ve done here. Yes. The varying heights will make a stunning display, and a few large rocks placed among the ferns will give a natural effect.” He reached around her to point out several spots as he spoke. A whiff of his scent, shaving cream and sweat, excited her senses. “I had not thought of a koi pond.”
“I-I—” Now Rose stammered like a child who had not memorized her lessons. “I am glad you are able to overlook the crudeness of my sketching.”
“You’re a blue-ribbon artist compared with me.” His low chuckle sent another army of ants scurrying up her spine. She should find a better comparison, for the sensation was more akin to flesh gliding against flesh. What would it feel like for his finger to trace a pattern on her back? For his wide palms to span her waist? For his lips to cover hers?
Rose coughed to cover her small whimper. “Have you a glass of water? It seems rather hot in here even though the windows are cranked open.”
“Perhaps we did not choose the best day to meet. It may be the hottest day of the summer yet. I shall ask Reardon to bring iced lemonade.”
Carmody stepped away from her and she felt the temperature recede. Rose followed him, trying not to study his rear as he led her from the conservatory into the library annex.
“Please sit. I am sorry I allowed you to become overheated without offering refreshments.” He removed a pile of books from a chair facing a larger leather chair grooved by the shape of his body. Then he went to the electronic bell push to summon the butler.
Sitting stiffly on the edge of her seat, Rose imagined Carmody lounging in his throne of a chair, king of a bookish empire. Her gaze wandered across the books lining shelves, stacked on a table and even in piles on the floor. She read the titles of several near her: The Philosophy of Money.