Arlene James - Fortune Finds Florist

Disappointment stamped all over what remained of that smile. “I see.”

For some reason he wanted to get up, go around that desk and hug her, or at least pat her on the shoulder. Instead, he sat forward and said with quiet conviction, “For what it’s worth, ma’am, I disagree with Mr. Ontario on this. I mean, just because a thing hasn’t been done in a certain area before doesn’t mean that it can’t be done or that it’s foolish to try.”

She smiled again, but this time it was a warm, seemingly personal connection that did strange things inside his chest. “What would you charge me for an undertaking such as this, from scratch, as you say?”

So there it was, the moment of reckoning. Sam eased forward in his seat and splayed his elbows on the edge of her desk, reaching forward to cup his hands together over the flowered border of her desk blotter. “Well, there’s the thing, ma’am. Sierra. This looks to be a very labor-intensive operation, and I’m guessing, frankly, that we’re pretty evenly matched here. You’ve got the land, the funding and, I’m hoping, the market connections, while I’ve got the equipment, the know-how and the strong back. I’d say that makes for a pretty equal partnership.”

“Partnership?” she repeated warily, and suddenly it was do or die.

“That’s right,” he said, forcing calmness into his voice though his insides were jumping like a bucket full of crickets. “A clean fifty-fifty split. I don’t see it working any other way.”

She blinked and huffed a long breath in and out. “Hmm.” She bit her lip, displaying the smooth, clean edges of her straight, white teeth, reminding him that the dentist had said the girls were going to need braces by middle school. Seconds ticked by. It was all he could do to sit back in his chair and wait without jiggling something. Finally she tossed down the pen and spread her hands.

“I hadn’t thought of taking on a partner,” she told him. “This isn’t a decision I can make on the spur of the moment, you understand.”

Defeat stabbed at him, but he fought it off with nonchalance. “Oh, sure, sure. I completely get that. You take a few days to think it over and let me know. Meanwhile, you might want to check out those references.”

She pulled the paper toward her and glanced at it. “All right. I’ll do that.”

“You have my number,” he said, sliding to the edge of his seat.

“Yes.” She got to her feet and stuck out her hand. “Thank you for coming. This was…enlightening.”

He took her hand in his and gave it a good shake. “Thank you for hearing me out, Sierra. I hope you’ll decide soon because there’s lots to do if we’re going to have a crop this summer.”

Smiling wanly, she placed both hands on her hips, glanced down at the desk and nodded. “You’ll hear from me next week.”

He had to be satisfied with that. She walked him out into the sitting room where he collected his coat, then all the way down the stairs to the front door of the shop. They chatted about the weather, bemoaning the gray skies and frigid winds with which they were beginning the new year and wondering if they would soon get precipitation and in what form. It was all very polite and formal. As soon as he stepped out onto that cold sidewalk, a feeling of doom descended on him, and he was suddenly very sure that he’d somehow blown it.

Well, he’d give it a week, anyway. He could afford to do that and still have plenty of time to make other arrangements if she didn’t go for the deal. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been refused, but something about this meeting rankled deep within him. He couldn’t have said why, but as he walked along the street to the battered double-cab, dually pickup parked in a lot behind the city hall, Sam felt his stomach churn with failure.

Sierra slid along the shop window, watching Sam Jayce stride down the street with a long-stepping, shoulder-rocking swagger, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. She didn’t really know what she’d expected to find in Sam Jayce, but she sure hadn’t expected such a supremely confident and accomplished young man.

Moments after Sam left the building, Bette came into the showroom in answer to the door chime in case they had a customer. Sierra didn’t turn around as she asked, “So, what do you think?”

“I think I wish I was at least fifteen years younger and fifty pounds lighter.”

Sierra glanced around with a wry smile. “He is pretty cute.”

“Cute!” Bette snorted. “Honey, you’ve been alone too long if those shoulders and that butt don’t strike you a little harder than cute.”

“He’s just a kid,” Sierra said dismissively. And he just might be the answer to her prayers.

A partnership, though. Pride rebelled at the notion. She was determined to make a success of herself, no matter what her father or anyone else thought, but Frank McAfree already believed that his daughter was completely incapable of handling her own finances, let alone her life. She could just imagine what he would say if she took on a partner, especially such a young, attractive partner, because no one could deny that Sam Jayce, whatever his age, was a very attractive man.

He’d put her in mind of a robust young Julius Caesar, even with that spiked, sandy brown hair. It was the shape of his head, from the perfect oval of his skull to his high forehead and prominent nose down to the square, blunt strength of his chin, which gave him that calmly powerful air. He had dimples that gouged into the lean planes of his cheeks, sleepy, pale green eyes thickly fringed with gold-tipped lashes and a perfectly sculpted mouth that added an almost feminine counterweight to the harshly masculine proportions of his face. But the rest of that package contained nothing even remotely feminine.

He wasn’t a huge man, maybe six feet tall and long and lean with broad shoulders and compact muscles that bunched and elongated with fluid power as he moved. She couldn’t help noticing the size and strength of his hands, the way his well-rounded thighs filled out his jeans, and yes, the rear view was enough to make a woman look twice. She just wished he was about ten or twenty years older.

On the other hand, perhaps his youth was in his favor. All the older men to whom she had proposed farming flowers had treated her like a foolish child. Maybe Sam Jayce was just young enough to still believe in dreams and brash enough to try to make them come true. But how could she know?

She would check his references, of course, but any name listed there would have been chosen because it guaranteed a glowing report. Better to speak with someone with no vested interest, someone in a position to know the scuttlebutt. It was time to pay a visit to an old friend.

The January wind cut like a knife when she got out of the sleek foreign luxury car that had been her first real indulgence after receiving her unexpected inheritance from dear old Edwin Searle. To say that finding herself among Edwin’s heirs had been a shock was a serious understatement, but the kind of money that he had left her, Avis and Valerie was the stuff of which dreams were made. It was also an awesome responsibility, and one with which Sierra was having a difficult time coping, though she wouldn’t have admitted it even to her own shadow.

The wind tugged at her jacket as she sprinted across the parking lot toward the coffee shop in the strip mall where she had originally opened her floral business. If anyone could tell her about Sam Jayce, it would be the coffee-shop proprietor Gwyn Dunstan. Sierra shoved through the heavy glass door and came to a halt just inside as the welcome fragrance of hot coffee and fresh-baked goods warmed her.

“Hey!” Gwyn greeted her cheerily, moving across the floor with steaming mugs and plates of oozing cinnamon rolls balanced in her hands.