The New Guy In Town. Teresa Southwick
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at him, but it was his eyes that sealed the deal. They were dark blue and full of glitter and sin and danger—if a girl wasn’t careful.
“Don’t give up your day job to write inspirational verses for greeting cards,” he said.
“The thought never crossed my mind. I love working with the flowers. And another perk of my job is torturing you about your women.”
“My women?” He put on an innocent act, pretending indignation. “You make me sound like the pharaoh with forty-seven wives.”
“If the shoe fits...” She was teasing. Mostly.
Since he’d moved to Blackwater Lake, Montana a few months ago, Sam Hart had quickly become a hot topic of gossip. Because he was definitely hot, and that made the gossip juicier. His looks weren’t all women noticed, though that lean, athletic body made more than one female heart skip a beat. When you factored in his impressive net worth as a member of the wealthy Hart family, attention from the opposite sex looking for love—or just a wealthy husband—was a fact of life. It was a dirty job, but someone had to be the town’s most eligible bachelor.
His expression turned adorably self-effacing and wounded. “You have no faith in me, Faith.”
“Really?” She tsked. “How long have you been trying to work that into a conversation with me?”
“Probably since we met.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “But here’s the thing—I like women and they seem to like me. You’re judging, Miss Connelly, and not in a good way. I’m picking up shades of assumption from you. Why is that? I’m a swell guy.”
“If you’re trying to seduce me, Sam, I should probably tell you that it’s not working.” And never would.
“Darn.” He snapped his fingers. “How can you be so sure?”
Besides the fact that she believed love was a four-letter word, the bad kind, she knew he was a player. “Seriously? No one knows you better than the plant lady.”
“You do have a way with flowers,” he said, looking all meek and faux innocent.
“And you have a way with women. That makes you one of my best customers.” She held up her fingers to count the ways. “A single yellow rose on the first date to indicate sunny feelings, warmth and welcome. The color holds no overtones of romance and indicates purely platonic emotions.”
“So you told me.” There was amusement in those blue eyes. “And you were right. It’s a crowd-pleaser.”
“The second date you buy a mixed bouquet so there’s no hint of commitment. If things don’t go well, there will be a lovely and tasteful arrangement to let a lady know not to wait by the phone for a call that will never come.” She met his gaze. “FYI, I always use peonies in the arrangement to indicate their indignation and your shame.”
“Do you put that on the card?”
“It’s enough that I know the significance,” she said.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He frowned slightly. “And you see this flower fetish of mine as a flaw?”
“On the contrary. It’s a public service. A woman always knows where she stands with you.”
“Just out of curiosity, what’s the appropriate bloom to offer on a third date?” he asked.
“Good question. I’d have to do some research. But never, under any circumstances, go with lavender. It conveys enchantment, as in love at first sight.” Faith studied him again. “Why are you asking about a third date? Do you want to give me breaking news? Is there something I should know? Maybe someone who has snagged a cherished and sought-after third-time’s-the-charm date with the elusive Sam Hart? Do I need an inventory change? Possibly to get ready for a wedding?”
“God forbid. Why would you say that?”
“Because a third date with you almost never happens, Sam.”
“That can’t be true.” His expression turned thoughtful, obviously trying to come up with something to prove her wrong, and then he sighed. “Am I that predictable?”
“Sadly, yes,” she said smugly.
“Wow. Remind me to change things up.”
“Not on my account. If you ever settle down, my bottom line will seriously suffer. A money guy like you should understand that.” She leveled her index finger in his direction to emphasize her point. “And I can’t afford to jeopardize my revenue stream while saving to put Phoebe through college.”
“Your daughter is eight.” His voice was wry. “You’ve got ten years.”
“A single mom has to plan carefully.” Because thanks to her bastard ex-husband, who walked out on her when she got pregnant, she was raising her daughter alone.
“Well, never fear, plant lady. I’m not getting married.” His devil-may-care air slipped, a tell that he would only commit to dodging a trip down the aisle.
“That sounds fairly adamant.”
“Because it is,” he confirmed.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret. If the single women of Blackwater Lake found out they have no chance to win your affections, it could cramp your style.” Although women had a bad habit of believing they could be the one to change a man’s mind. Faith wasn’t one of them, however. “And your style is going to pad my daughter’s education fund.”
“It’s good to know that professional confidentiality is for lawyers, doctors and florists.”
His blunt admission fertilized her curiosity about his aversion to matrimony but the whys of it were a conversation for another day. “So where should I deliver the breakup bouquet?”
“I haven’t confirmed I’m ordering one.” He stopped as something occurred to him. “Do you really call it that?”
“Of course. I could do a whole marketing campaign on it thanks to you.”
“Ouch.”
“I’m not making fun of you—”
“Yes,” he said. “You are.”
“Okay, I am.” She grinned. “But I do it with a great deal of affection.” And a fair amount of flirting.
Her inner flirt had been in permanent time-out until she’d met Sam Hart. He was a walking, talking warning about why she’d sworn off men. Lack of commitment. Flitting from one woman to the next. Pretty to look at but shallow as a cookie sheet. The silver lining was that the reminder came with built-in caution to never let her interaction with him be more than business. Hence, he was safe to flirt with.
“Okay, then, at the risk of making you even more insufferable than you already are, I’d like to send a lovely, tasteful bouquet. With peonies,” he added.
It was really hard not to gloat. But she was nothing if not a plant professional. “Where would you like it delivered? And what’s the name on the card?”
“Blackwater Lake Lodge—”
“Ah. A tourist.”
“Really?” His tone scolded her.
“Not judging,” she said quickly. “Just an observation. A name would be helpful.”
He hesitated for a moment, then sighed. “Kiki Daniels. And don’t you dare—”
“Never crossed my mind,” she lied, pressing her lips together to suppress a smile or any words that might try to slip out.
“I don’t believe you.” He gave her the room number and instructed her to put it on the credit card she had on file for him. “You’re dying to say something so spit it out before you explode.”
“Okay. Does she look like a Kiki? I