Traditional, certainly. Even predictable, in their way, she supposed. Unless you factored in that no one in her life had ever sent her a long, glossy white box filled with red roses.
She was certain he knew it.
Then there was the card.
Until your garden blooms
How did he know flowers were one of her biggest weaknesses, that she had pined for bright, fragrant blooms in those years when she was living in tiny, cramped rooms in noisy, crowded cities? That she'd promised herself that one day she would have a garden of her own, planted and tended by her own hands?
Because he saw too much, she decided, and circled the flowers as warily as a dog circling a stranger. She was so intent on them, she actually jumped when the phone rang. Cursing herself she yanked up the receiver.
'Yes. Hello.'
'Bad time?' Jared asked.
She scowled at the flowers lying beautifully against the green protective paper. 'I'm busy, if that's what you mean.'
'Then I won't keep you. I thought you might like to bring Bryan over to the farm for dinner tonight.'
Still frowning, she reached into the box, took out a single rose. It didn't bite. 'Why?'
'Why not?'
'For starters, I've already got sauce on for spaghetti.' She waited a beat. So did he. 'I suppose you expect me to ask you to come here to dinner.'
'Yep.'
Twirling the rose, she tried to think of a good reason not to. 'All right. But Bryan has baseball practice after school. I have to pick him up at six, so—'
'I'll pick him up. It's on my way. See you tonight, then.'
Something seemed to be slipping out of her hands. 'I told you all of this wasn't necessary,' she muttered. 'The flowers.'
'Do you like them?'
'Sure, they're beautiful.'
'Well, then.' That seemed to settle the matter. 'I'll see you a bit after six.'
Befuddled, she hung up. After another long stare at the roses, she decided she'd better dig up a vase.
At six-fifteen she heard the sound of a car coming up her lane. Carefully she finished a detail on the illustration of her wicked queen for a reissue of traditional fairy tales, then turned away from her worktable. Bryan was already clattering up the steps by the time she walked from her small studio into the kitchen.
'... then he popped up, and that klutzoid Tommy couldn't get his glove under it. His mom had two cows when the ball came down and smacked him in the face. Blood was spurting out of his nose. It was so cool. Hi, Mom.'
'Bryan.' She lifted a brow at the state of his clothes. Red dirt streaked every inch. 'Do some sliding today?'
'Yeah.' He headed straight to the refrigerator for a jug of juice.
'Tommy Mardson got a bloody nose,' Jared put in.
'So I hear.'
'His mom was really screaming.' Excited by the memory, Bryan nearly forgot to bother with a glass— until he caught his own mother's steely eye. 'It wasn't broke. Just smashed real good.'
'We're going to work on that grammar tonight, Ace.'
Bryan rolled his eyes. 'Nobody talks like the books say. Anyway, I got a B on the spelling test.'
'Drinks are on the house. Math?'
Bryan swallowed juice in a hurry. 'Hey, I gotta clean up,' he declared, and dashed for the stairs in a strategic retreat.
Recognizing evasive action, Savannah winced. 'We hate long division.'
'Who doesn't?' Jared handed her a bottle of wine. 'But a B in spelling's not chump change.'
Neither, she thought, was the fancy French label on the bottle. 'This is going to humble my spaghetti.'
Jared took a deep, appreciative sniff of the air. It was all spice and bubbling red sauce. 'I don't think so.'
'Well, at least take off that tie.' She turned to root out a corkscrew. 'It's intimidating. You can—'
He turned her by the shoulders, lowered his head slowly and covered her mouth with his. The top of her head lifted gently away.
'Kiss,' she finished on a long breath. 'You can sure as hell kiss.' After picking up the corkscrew that had clattered to the counter, she opened the wine with the quick, competent moves of a veteran bartender. 'Fancy wine and fancy flowers, all in one day. You're going to turn my head.'
'That's the idea.'
She stretched for the wineglasses on the top shelf. 'I'd have thought, after the condensed version of
He brushed a finger over the petals of the roses she'd set in the center of the table. 'They seem to suit you.'
As he folded his tie into his pocket, loosened the collar of his shirt, she poured the wine. 'It was rude of me not to thank you for them. So...' She handed him a glass. 'Thanks.'
'My pleasure.'
'Bryan's going to hide out until he thinks I've forgotten about the math. More fool he. If you're hungry, I can call him down.'
'No hurry.' Sipping wine, he wandered into the front room. He wanted a better look at the paintings.
The colors were bold, often just on the edge of clashing. The brush strokes struck him as the same— bold sweeps, temperamental lines. The subject matter varied, from still lifes of flowers in full riotous bloom, to portraits of vivid, lived-in faces, to landscapes of gnarled trees, rocky hills and stormy skies.
Not quiet parlor material, he mused. And not something it was easy to look away from. Like the artist, he decided, the work made a full-throttle impression.
'No wonder you turned your nose up at what's hanging in my office,' he murmured.
'I've never thought art was supposed to be cool.' She moved a shoulder. 'But that's just my opinion.'
'What's it supposed to be? In your opinion?'
'Alive.'
'Then you've certainly succeeded.' He turned back to her. 'Do you still sell?'
'If the price is right.'
'I've been thinking about having Regan do something about my office. My sister-in-law,' he reminded her. 'She's done an incredible job with the inn she and my brother are rehabing. Would you be willing to handle the art?'
She took it slow, watching him, sipping wine. The idea had an old, deeply buried longing battling for air. Painting was just a hobby, she reminded herself. What else could it be, for a woman with no formal training?
'I've already told you I'd sleep with you.'
He managed a laugh, though it nearly stuck in his suddenly dry throat. 'Yes, you have. But we're talking about your painting. Are you interested in selling some?'
'You want to put my art in your office?'
'I believe I've established that.'
One step at a time, Savannah reminded herself. Don't let him see just how much it would mean. 'Wouldn't you be more comfortable with some nice pastels?'
'You have a nasty streak, Savannah. I like it.'
She laughed, enjoying him. 'Let's see what your sister-in-law comes up with first. Then we'll talk.' She walked back into the kitchen to put on water for the pasta.
'Fair enough. Why don't you drop by the inn, see what she and Rafe have done there?'
'I'd love to get a look at the place,' she admitted.
'I could drive you over after dinner.'
'Homework.' She shook her head with real regret. 'I have a feeling I'm going to be doing long division.'
