Rose Gardner's Florist (The Providence Street Shops #2) - Bonnie Dee Page 0,5
against an especially hot summer. No one wanted a limp bouquet. Her new agreement with a grower to deliver stock directly to her door saved her those early morning trips to Covent Garden. So far, quality flowers had arrived with satisfying punctuality. No customer uttered a negative word about their freshness, and she intended to keep it that way.
Rose stepped away from the wall of flowers and bumped into a different sort of wall, something hard, unyielding and human. She shrieked, whirled around and sprayed the silent intruder with her misting bottle.
The man retreated, brushing droplets of water from his face. “I apologize. I didn’t intend to frighten you. I should have announced my presence, but I thought you heard me enter the store.”
“No. I did not!” Rose snapped. Frankenstein’s monster had returned. She gritted her teeth and tried to remember that all customers must be treated like honored guests. But honestly, why was the fellow looming right behind her?
She managed a weak smile. “May I help you, Mr. Carmody?”
He had removed his spectacles and now wiped the glass in nervous circles with his handkerchief. “Yes. I, um, need to buy… that is, my aunt is ill and having a birthday so I must buy her a bouquet.”
“How kind of you. Do you know what sort of flowers your aunt prefers? I have some lovely gladioluses today.”
Carmody’s gaze darted around the shop as if seeking an exit. “Red,” he blurted. “She likes red.”
“I’m afraid I have no red gladioluses. How about red roses? Or perhaps a potted gardenia which will last longer?”
“Roses, I think. Yes. Roses.” He cleared his throat and added, “Fragrant and pretty like, um, you.” His face turned as scarlet as the flowers and he stared at his feet. “My weak attempt at charm. Hardy has a knack for it, but I am hopeless. Please pretend I did not say that.”
This fellow truly was the opposite of his friend in every way. Still, his clumsy attempt to compliment her was rather adorable.
Rose abruptly understood that Carmody had not been too arrogant to speak to her on their first meeting. He was simply tongue-tied with shyness. A warm wave of sympathy at his distress swept through her, demanding she put him at ease.
“All is well, Mr. Carmody. I accept your kind praise in the spirit it was given. Now, may I show you the roses and make up a bouquet?”
He nodded and moved his large body with great care around the shop, keeping his elbows to himself as he passed the bereavement display. Rest In His Love Forever.
When she showed him the array of blooms from purest white, to yellow and pink, to deepest ruby, Carmody bowed over the roses and inhaled deeply. His eyelids closed. The thickness of the spectacles enhanced the long lashes fanning across his cheeks. Rose felt a little hitch in her chest at the sight of his pleasure, as if she were witnessing a private moment.
He straightened, regaining his height. “Rosa ruber, a woody perennial of the genus Rosa, in the family Rosacae, is it not?”
“I, uh, suppose so,” she responded to his scientific identification. “I just sell them. I do not know Latin names. Only that they smell nice.” Apparently, his awkwardness was catching.
She selected the best flowers, stems dripping wet from the bucket. “How many?”
“Two dozen.” His voice grew so quiet she could scarcely hear.
“That many? They are quite expensive.”
He waved a hand as if shooing away a fly. “No matter. She is my favorite niece, um, aunt.”
His slip told her there was no sick relative celebrating a birthday. That meant something else had brought him to the shop, and there was only one likely reason. Rose cringed as she realized he’d invented a pretext to see her, a flattering but frightening thought. She was not interested in Mr. Carmody, but didn’t want to offend him by rejecting him. This wasn’t some would-be lothario flirting with her, but Guy’s dearest friend, which put her in an awkward position.
Her nervous tension distracted her from attending to the roses. A sharp point bit into her palm and left behind not a light scratch but a jagged tear. She yelped, tried to avoid dropping the flowers and succeeded in grabbing a fistful of thorns.
Mr. Carmody wrested the roses from her grip with one hand and took a handkerchief from his pocket with the other. “Bind your hand until I can tend to it,” he ordered in an authoritative tone.