Cara Colter - The Playboy's Plain Jane

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To my daughter-in-law, Crissy Martin,

A true original,

Funny, sensitive, spunky, beautiful

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

“…AND I THINK a few lilies,” Mrs. Johnson said sadly, “Gertrude did love lilies.”

Katie’s eyes slid to the clock. Nearly one o’clock. She couldn’t very well stop midorder—especially for something as sensitive as a funeral wreath—to go look out the window. But when Mrs. Johnson had come in a full ten minutes ago, she had indicated she was in a hurry. They should have been done by now!

Aware of a certain despicable powerlessness, Katie set down her pen. Well, she did own The Flower Girl, after all. She was the boss. If she wanted to go look out the window, she could do that!

“Excuse me for just a sec,” she said. “Something in the window, um, needs my immediate attention.”

Ignoring Mrs. Johnson’s bewildered glance toward a window that held an eye-catching display of nonattention-needing spring bouquets, Katie stepped out from behind the counter, walked swiftly to the window. She toyed with a vase of bright phlox that represented the new hopes and sweet dreams of the coming of spring.

Right on time, the man she despised more than any other rounded the corner of First Street, onto Davis. Dylan McKinnon was coming fast, a man who would have scorned the word jogging. He was running flat-out, arms and legs pumping, his dark hair wind ruffled.

She felt the bottom fall out of her stomach. Today he was wearing a hooded black jacket, with no sleeves, the absolutely perfect outfit for a man with muscles like that. His arms rippled with easy strength, the line of his triceps, hard cut and sweat beaded, did a funny thing to Katie’s breathing.

The jacket was designed to show off his attributes, obviously. As were the shorts, showing the perfect line of legs that were strong and hard with lean male muscle.

Pathetic, she chided herself, knowing darn well it was not Dylan McKinnon she despised, but her own weakness.

He was trouble with a million-dollar grin, but it just didn’t make him any less bewitching.

His hair, the rich dark color of espresso, was a touch too long. It made her think ridiculous thoughts of the long-ago Scottish warriors who, with a name like McKinnon, had been Dylan’s ancestors.

He had a strong nose, and a faintly clefted chin, high cheekbones that were whisker roughened today. And stamped across those perfect, breath-stealing features was an expression of fierce determination, an almost frightening singleness of focus.

His eyes, framed with a sinful abundance of black, soot-dipped lash, and bluer than the sky right before the sun faded from it, had that look of a man who was looking inward to his own strength, as well as outward at his world.

Katie hated how she loved to watch him run, but Dylan McKinnon wasn’t the most eligible bachelor in Hillsboro, Ontario, for no reason.

Don’t stop, she silently begged as he slowed near her window. She pulled back so that he wouldn’t see she had watched, darted for the counter as she read his intention to come into her store. He opened the door just as she managed to get behind the cash register and slam her glasses back on her face.

She peeked up over the rims of her spectacles at him, trying to hide the raggedness of her breathing from her unscheduled sprint behind the counter.

“I’m just taking an order,” she said, no-nonsense, professional. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

The grin erased some of the warrior from his face, but the lifted eyebrow reinforced it, said as clearly as though he had spoken, No mere woman has ever kept the great McKinnon waiting.

She pursed her lips to let him know others might be bowled over by his charms, but she was not. She did feel weakly compelled to watch his daily run, which he surely never had to know. He had to wait in line like everyone else.

Mrs. Johnson, however, wrecked Katie’s intention to humble him. Obvious recognition dawned in her face. “Oh, no,” she said breathlessly, forgetting her hurry, “You go first, Mr. McKinnon.”

“Dylan, please. Are you sure?” He smiled at Mrs. Johnson with chocolate-melting charm.

“Oh,” she stammered. “Of course, I’m sure.”

“Katie, my lady,” he said, stepping up to the counter, with his all-male swagger.

She steeled herself against that smile. “Mr. McKinnon.”

“What do you think of the new jacket?” he asked, just as if he hadn’t jumped the line, just as if he wasn’t taking another customer’s time.

She glanced at it, saw close-up the way it showed every line of muscle in his arm, and gulped. As she dragged her eyes back up to his face, she saw the distinctive red Daredevils emblem on his chest. When she met his eyes, she was pretty sure he was conceited enough to know exactly what she thought of his new jacket. Now she wouldn’t have given him the pleasure of telling him, even if there were goblins waiting in the back room to cut out her tongue if she uttered a lie.

“I would think, by definition, a jacket should have sleeves.”

He frowned at her. “It’s a running jacket. You want your arms free when you run. Plus, you don’t want to overheat. Our engineers designed it. It’s going into production next week.”

“It has a hood,” she pointed out.

“Uh, yeah?”

“So, your head might get cold, but your arms won’t?”

He scowled at her. “Part of the reason it’s designed without sleeves is the sweat issue.”

“Sweat?” she echoed, hoping it didn’t sound as if she was saying a dirty word.

“It’s easier to clean an undershirt than the whole jacket.” He unzipped, as if he was actually considering demonstrating, and it seemed as if her life had reached a new low. She was discussing undershirts with Dylan McKinnon.

She held up her hand before he managed to get the jacket off, and he lifted his eyebrows at her, faintly mocking, as if he had guessed she was too long without a man and given to swooning.

“Well,” she said brightly, trying to hide her wild discomfort, “what can I do for you today?”

“Katie, my lady, I need you to just send a little something to, uh—”

“Heather,” she said stiffly.

He grinned. “Yeah, Heather. Thanks.”

“Message?” she asked.

“Uh—”

Katie rapidly calculated in her head. This was Heather’s third bouquet. “Something like, Sorry I forgot?” she prompted him.

If he was the least contrite that his fickle heart was so predictable, he did not show it. He nodded, grinned at her with approval. “Perfect. Oh, and maybe send a little something to Tara, too.”