My Fake Husband (A Secret Baby Romance) - Page 39

I turned on my hotplate and seared the stems of the flowers I was going to work with. I wanted to get a couple of Monday’s orders ready, and I wasn’t going to risk them wilting in the cooler over Sunday. Searing the tips in a skillet made them last longer, so I could depend on their freshness. I laid out what I needed, recorded what stock I was using on an inventory sheet for final pricing, and got to work trimming and sorting, arranging and binding until the bouquet was complete. The anemones and clematis were magenta and purple, striking, vivid colors that seemed to warm up the backroom just by being there. I made the arrangement sensuous, lush, to let the broad, drooping petals show their sexy, velvety potential. I snapped a picture and posted it to my shop’s Insta news feed because I was so proud of it. Soon, I had a notification that there was a comment—four flame emojis from Damon.

Very funny, fireman, I replied in the comments and then put my phone away. I felt exposed somehow, that he’d seen the bouquet that I had made of bright, pulsing colors in an arrangement I found undeniably sexy. Like he’d walked in on me in the shower or something. But I’d posted the picture knowing people would see it, so that was that.

If it made me breathe harder to think of Damon seeing those flowers, to wonder if he saw anything sensuous about them, I had to put that aside. There wasn’t going to be some fantasy moment. A fantasy where he walked in my shop and locked the door and flipped the sign to Closed. Where he crossed the room to me in four long strides and put his hands on my worktable, palms down, and demanded to know if I had been thinking of him when I made that bouquet, when I took that picture. I’d lick my lips and nod. Of course I thought of him. Everything made me think of him. Then he’d come around the table, slip his hand into my hair and bring my lips to his for a fiery kiss. “What if I told you that fire is no joke to a fireman, it’s dangerous. It consumes. The way wanting you consumes me. There’s nothing left in me but this soul-deep burn for you—”

I shook my head at myself. Damon didn’t talk like that or act like that. If he said something burned deeply, he meant he needed to go to the ER because he was injured. But no way in hell did he burn for me, no way did he think about locking up my shop and taking me right there on the table, scattering stems and blossoms as we rocked together, my legs twined around him, his thrusts searing my body as I gave in to shudders of pleasure. Searing—damn, I needed to unplug my hot plate. I rolled my eyes. This was my real life, don’t forget to unplug the hotplate or you’ll burn the place down, Trixie.

I finished up my work, waited on a couple customers and took a lot of online orders. I booked the delivery guy for the entire next week because I had that much business coming in. Then I called Michelle.

“Don’t you fucking dare back out on drinks for tonight,” she said when she answered the phone.

“Hello to you, too,” I said wryly.

“You’re cancelling.”

“No way!” I said. “I can’t wait to get you girls drunk and then post it on YouTube.”

“You don’t know how to upload anything to YouTube,” she said.

“Or do I?” I teased. “I’ll buy you drinks, get you to loosen up, then I’ll start filming—”

“Is that what the creepy Girls Gone Wild people used to do on spring break? Pass out Jell-o shots and video release forms?”

“I thought you were a sour whiskey girl, but, babe, if you want Jell-O shots, I’ll find you some.”

“I don’t want Jell-O shots. I’m talking about you skipping out at the last second to stay at home like a good little wifey,” she said.

“I’m not a good little wifey,” I protested. “But I do wanna take my best friends out and have some fun. We all deserve it, plus I owe you enough sangria to float a barge after y’all helped me clean up that water damage.”

“You’re right. A bucket load of sangria for starters, and some tacos. I want tacos.”

“It’s a deal,” I said. “So how’s work?”

“Well, Max Shaffer was just in here with his little girl checking out the new books in the kids’ section.”

“I thought he was a total hermit.”

“I don’t think so. He brings his kid in every week, and sometimes they come to storytime on Tuesday nights.”

“So he just, what, lumberjacks and reads with his daughter? Why have the women of Rockford Falls not formed a torch-bearing mob and stormed his cabin? He’s not hard on the eyes from what I’ve seen.”

Tags: Natasha L. Black Romance
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