Susan Crosby - The Groom's Revenge

She waited until Mike climbed back into his truck, then she planted her fists on her hips. “That’s your company logo on the box,” she said after studying the package.

“I believe you’re night.”

“I can’t accept that kind of gift.”

“Did I say it was a gift?”

She sputtered. He expected her to pay for something she hadn’t ordered? And didn’t want? This was not the man of her dreams. Not even close. That man respected her, acknowledged her as an intelligent and independent person and admired her business sense. But the man standing in front of her had decided after a half-hour conversation that he knew her well enough to tell her how to run her business.

“I can’t pay for this,” she said, forcing the words out.

“I don’t send a computer unsolicited, then expect someone to pay for it, Mollie.”

“But you said it wasn’t a gift.”

“It isn’t”

“Well. That’s crystal clear.”

Gray enjoyed her temper, bright as a newly minted penny. “Sign for the delivery and I’ll explain.”

“I’ll just be calling in a pickup order for tomorrow.”

“That’ll be your decision. For now, just accept it. Please,” he said. Mike returned in time to overhear their discussion.

She cursed Gray with her eyes but scrawled her name across the signature pad when Mike slid it across the counter, grinning.

“He won’t keep Jus mouth shut,” she almost growled when they were alone again. “Everyone up and down the block will know.”

“I wasn’t the one making a fuss,” Gray said mildly.

“I would expect a man like you to get to the point,” she said through clenched teeth.

“A man like me?”

“Brilliant. Analytical.” She frowned. “Although People magazine also called you quirky.” She lost her fighting edge for a moment as she seemed to think about that.

Had she gone to the library last night and read up on him? He never had figured out why that reporter had labeled him as quirky, a definition Gray would never apply to himself. He’d told her she could ask questions while he jogged his eight miles, because he didn’t have time for her otherwise. Did that make him quirky? Or efficient?

“You work hard and you’re ambitious,” he said to Mollie. “I respect that You’re trying to take what’s already a charming little shop and make it more upscale, to attract new business, right?”

“Without losing any of the old customers.” Diverted from her argument, she mirrored his pose across the counter, leaning toward him.

“The coffeehouse down the block draws a different crowd into the area,” he said.

“There’s a lot of revitalization going on here. New businesses are mushrooming. There’s a lot of potential business because the neighborhood has changed. I would’ve moved my business here, if I hadn’t already been here.”

He nodded. He’d done some quick research on the subject. An infusion of cash would certainly help her give a fresh new look to her shop. “The whole area is on the brink of a renaissance.”

“And I want to be ready.”

“Then you’ll need to computerize your business.”

“Why?”

“For one, when you get on the Internet, you can locate other florists and see what they’re doing. You won’t believe the doors that will open to you.”

Interest flashed in her eyes before she clamped her mouth shut and pushed away from the counter. “Why do you care?”

He’d come up with his new plan last night, pleased with his solution. He had to buy himself some tune, let her get to know him, then convince her to help him ruin Stuart Fortune. For now, though, he just needed a reason to keep her in close contact.

“I want you to plan my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party.”

Surprise widened her eyes. “Twenty-fifth? But—”

“My mother and stepfather,” he said.

“Oh. I guess I assumed they lived in California.”

“They do. That’s why you’ll need a computer.”

Molhe frowned. Her world had stopped making sense the moment Gray had dropped into her life, the man-who didn’t know he’d helped her bury her grief. But not only did his request not make sense, it was downright ridiculous. Not just quirky. Ridiculous. Absurd. Preposterous.

So why did she just want to say okay without questioning his motives? Surely he had motives.

“You must have a choice of a hundred party planners where you live,” she said.

“Last month I attended a charity ball here in Minneapolis. You were one of the sponsors.”

“How do you know that?”

“I won one of the table centerpieces. A basket decorated with dried flowers. Very original. Your business card was taped to the bottom ” He pulled it out of his pocket and showed her. “I shipped the basket to my mother the next day, because I thought it was something she would like. And she did. Obviously you’re the right person for the job.”

The phone rang. She watched him peel off a packing slip from one of the computer boxes as she handled a frantic caller requesting a dozen long-stemmed red roses for a just-remembered anniversary. Yes, she had some on hand, she told the man with the stress-filled voice. Yes, roses were expensive, but his wife was priceless, wasn’t she? Yes, she took Mastercard. Yes, he could pick them up in half an hour.

Gray looked at his watch no less than five tunes in the few minutes she was on the phone.

After she hung up she moved to the refrigerator case and lifted out a tall vase filled with roses, then grabbed some baby’s breath, lemon leaves and leather fern.

She lined a long gold-foil box with forest green tissue paper, a task that soothed her with its familiarity. In a world turned upside down, she needed routine. “Why me?” she asked.

“Because I’ve seen and admired your work, as I said. And because you’re from home.”

“Here?” She’d stripped the lower stems of thorns and leaves before putting them in the refrigerator. Grabbing her paring knife, she made an angle cut at the bottom of each stem before sliding it into a water-filled tube. Gray wandered close to watch.

“My mother and stepfather were born in Minneapolis,” he said, his gaze following her hands as she worked. “So was I.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Is there a reason why you should?”

She layered roses, greenery and baby’s breath in the box. “I suppose not. I’m just surprised. Still, that’s hardly enough reason to put me in charge of a party that will take place so far from here. It’s not practical. Or are you planning to have the party here?”

“No. It’ll be near where they live in Atherton. That’s in Northern California, near what’s called the Silicon Valley. Near Stanford University.”

“When?”

“April twentieth.”

She dropped the length of ribbon she’d just snipped. “April as in next year? Nine months from now?”

“Does that give you enough time?”

“Gee, I don’t know, Gray. That might be cutting it awfully close.” She swiped the ribbon from the floor, then formed a big loopy, red bow.

“I figured we’d need to reserve the facility well in advance I expect several hundred people to attend.”

“What does it have to do with my having a computer?” she asked, chagrined that he was right.

“It’s the best way of staying in touch to handle the details.”

She looked up at him for a second, then focused on attaching the ribbon to the box. “You do remember we have telephones here in Minneapolis, right? And fax machines.”

“I prefer e-mail.”

“You would,” she mumbled.

“What was that?”

She could hear the smile in his voice and tried to decide whether she liked being a source of entertainment for him. “I said, ‘Oh, good.’”