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“Just a normal guy. Not flashy or complicated.”
I want you. I want your sunshine and your darkness. But I don’t want to share you. I won’t ever share.
My mouth opens to release a shuddering breath. “Someone who calms me down, who goes with the flow. Everything doesn’t have to be intense.”
I’m selfish. I’m stubborn.
I squeeze my legs together as a rush of heat surges downward. My body is crying out for Clay’s touch.
I blink rapidly and push away from the washing station, letting the towel fall from my hands.
Is it me or is it getting hot in here?
Amy follows me to the water cooler where I pour myself a cup and drain it like it’s a shot of tequila.
“You’re not asking for much,” she says thoughtfully. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find a guy for you. And who knows? It’s rare that you connect with someone perfectly on the first date. Maybe you should consider giving Byron another shot.”
“I don’t think—”
Before I can finish, the bell on the front door chimes.
Mr. P walks into my shop.
I meet him halfway, already concerned.
Mr. P and Mr. J have become pseudo-greeters for the salon. Several of my regulars know them by name. They’ve even received complimentary pecan pies, cobblers and such from the older, single clients.
It’s rare they ever leave their posts at the door to speak to me.
“Miss Hayes,” Mr. P says, frowning seriously. “Can you step outside for a moment?”
“Sure.” I give Amy a‘what’s going on look’.
She only shrugs.
Mr. P leads me into the sunshine. I have to lift a hand to shade my face from the blazing heat. The moment I can see properly again, I nearly skitter out of my skin.
Large bouquets line the stairs of my salon, trailing from the steps and forming a path to the street. Soft pink blooms spray the air with a fairyland fragrance. Bright colors pop against the dark grey cement.
Jaw dropping, I realize the flower path is leading to a horse drawn buggy.
My heart slams against my ribs.What is all this?
Mr. P glances between me and the street. “This gentleman says he’s here to pick you up.” He points to the operator of the buggy. “Do you accept?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Then we’ll follow you.”
“No need,” I say. Clay is going big with his apology. I don’t want his men to see him groveling.
It might hurt his street cred.
Especially since I plan on raking him through the coals a bit before I forgive him.
Or maybe not.
This is over-the-top embarrassing and totally contrary to Clay’s normal mode of behavior. I can’t even imagine that stone-faced soldier ordering these flowers.