Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 199(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 199(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
I groan because I know it’s a day of firsts, and lasts, too, by the look of things.
Jasmine hasn’t just rattled me. She’s turned the whole machine upside down and shook out the insides.
Everything I thought I was. Everything I thought I had is nothing compared to that feeling when I looked into her eyes—that feeling of peace and calm as though I’m right where I need to be.
And it sure as hell isn’t something I can walk away from.
Great time to realize that, champ. You must be five miles from her by now. Oh, and she thinks you’re nuttier than a bag of squirrels…
Shit.
“James… James!” someone calls out. There’s the honk of a horn, and I look up.
Only then do I notice how hard it’s raining.
As I realize I’m soaked, I put a name to the face calling out from across the street.
Larry Finkelstein. Used to work with me years ago. We fell out of touch, and by the time he knew what a success I’d made of the firm, he’s kinda “bumped into me” so many times I wondered if he was camped out in my crawl space at home.
He’s not. I checked.
He’s done all right for himself without my help. Ordering me to stay put, he cuts across four lanes of traffic to pull up in front of me, urging me to get out of the rain.
“Jesus, James!” he exclaims. “What on earth are you doing walking in the rain… and on this side of town?” he asks, still shaking his head in disbelief and looking back at the bank of traffic honking at him.
He swivels his large head like he’s watching a tennis match before negotiating a way back into the capillary action, the osmosis that is downtown traffic.
I’m still smarting over the morning I’m having. And don’t feel like telling Larry anything that’s none of his business.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I remark dryly. I catch his gaze long enough in the rearview mirror, letting him know I suspect he is following me around.
Not like I followed Jasmine.
That’s different.
Larry just… appears more often than anyone else—more than people who know me better, and he’s the only one I know who refuses to call me Mr. Jones. Nobody calls me James except Larry.
And Jasmine. Ugh! I’m such a shit! She must hate me by now.
“I was on my way to see a client, probate case…,” Larry says with an air of smug confidence.
His eyes are too small for his huge head, as though added at the last minute. It makes it hard to stare at him for long, but his ugly mug and creepy eyes are the last things on my mind.
“Say, you know a good florist around here? I really need something to take, ya know? Grieving widow and all. Worth a fuckton if I get the damned case, so I’m thinking…,” he rattles on, thinking aloud.
But I’m already feeling a little better. Already feeling like the hand that’s guided me to Jasmine is just dragging me straight back.
Though I messed up my first chance, I see another one opening up, and already hoping it extends to Jasmine doing the same. Opening up for me and soon… and giving me a second chance.
“Matter of fact, I do,” I drawl. “It’s a few blocks, though… straight up. Do you mind dropping me off there,” I tell rather than ask Larry, not caring if he does mind.
“I kinda think I left something there that belongs to me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Jasmine
Iris wastes no time in darting back over to my store once she sees James leave. And I know it’s only because she’s worried about me.
A case in point is when she reads how upset I am after he leaves, but not for any of the reasons she might think.
I’ll be honest. It’s a rough neighborhood. We’ve had more than our fair share of wackos between our two little storefronts.
Someone who’s as well dressed, as obscenely handsome and professional looking as James in the store would normally be cause to celebrate. To have our “one day my man will come along” routine we both enjoy goofing around with so much.
I walk Iris through what happened, and only after I assure her I’m not hurt or scared.
Just confused. And already regretting letting him leave.
“A man like that? It’s either grief or love to make him act so crazy,” Iris muses aloud.
I know what she means.
I think.
Floristry isn’t all flowers and plants, tissue paper, and ribbons. We’ve got to read people and their reasons for flowers.
We’ve got to have a bag of options as well as being a good listener sometimes.
“You think it’s…?” I start to ask Iris. But she already seems to know.
“Definitely,” she nods firmly, making my heart sink.
I knew it was too good to be true. The man’s just in…