Chapter 7 #2
He was standing by the scarred old table, which was covered in stems and blooms, carefully taking each one and snipping off the end with a pair of sturdy floristry scissors – wearing only an old pair of football shorts.
He hadn’t noticed her, so she remained as still as she could, watching as he grasped a stem and removed the leaves from the lower part in a skilful move with his bare fingers.
The curling hair at his neck drew her eyes to the dark tan of his nape, then farther to his shoulders, the contours of muscle and bone.
The expanse of his back was far more interesting than it should have been – and somehow vulnerable to study in such detail.
When he turned to prepare another stem, she glimpsed his chest, compact and muscular and inspiring some sudden and very vivid fantasies – mostly about cuddling.
Her throat was so thick, she was worried he’d hear her swallow.
Fantasies about cuddling were even more embarrassing than about sex.
But perhaps these imaginings were sexual on some level.
She could picture her body flush against his, her face tucked into that place near his shoulder, her nose in his neck and the tickle of his chest hair on her chin.
She should have dated more, if the sight of a shirtless man reduced her to this.
Lifting one of the stems, he studied it critically, a deep furrow between his brows that never seemed to fully uncrinkle. There was a faint pout to his lips beneath that silky, brown moustache.
He still hadn’t noticed her and she was feeling silly, standing motionless behind the open door, peering at his half-naked flower arranging. She was about to open the door wider and announce her presence when he slipped on a pair of gloves and she couldn’t contain a giggle.
Glancing up, a strand of hair fell over his forehead, calling to her hand to smooth away. Oh dear.
‘Buongiorno,’ he said with a questioning look. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘With your whistling? No.’
‘What whistling?’
She decided it was best not to mention it.
‘I didn’t hear you at all. I haven’t slept this late in…
a long time.’ Lifting a hand to her hair in a stretch, she paused when she realised she must look a tangled mess and Gabri’s gaze was on her – briefly, until he looked away abruptly, returning to his work.
‘Was something funny? I didn’t think floristry in my living room would surprise you,’ he asked.
Carefully selecting one profuse stem, he snipped off the mean-looking, spiny leaves until just two were left – and a bulbous flower was revealed, bright-pink petals bursting from a thorny cup. It was wild and fierce and it seemed he was going to add it to the bouquet.
‘It wasn’t the activity I was laughing at, just the fashion statement: shirtless, but with gloves on.’
He glanced down, as though he hadn’t noticed he’d forgotten to put a shirt on. She might have detected a spot of colour on his tanned cheeks. ‘I’m not going to handle this without gloves. It’s a cardo. Eh…’ He hesitated over the English word. ‘Tizzle?’
Tizzle would be a good description for what was going on in Toni’s stomach right now, a thought which meant she took a little longer to work out what he was actually talking about.
‘Oh, you mean a thistle.’
‘That’s what I said.’ His shirtless shrug drew her attention everywhere and that tizzle was back. ‘My accent is really so bad?’
‘No,’ she insisted with a laugh. ‘Usually, it’s very good. I suppose “thistle” is a difficult word. It’s got the “th” and the…’
He’d stopped what he was doing, staring at her mouth, and Toni couldn’t remember what she’d been trying to say.
‘Ahia!’ He dropped the flower, tugging off his glove to peer at his hand, where a spot of blood welled on the thumb. ‘Cazzo,’ he swore under his breath, moving to the sink to run his hand under the water.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course! It’s just a…’ He met her gaze with an amused smile as he dried his hand. ‘A tissle. Thhhhissstle.’
‘We have a tongue-twister about that, you know. Theophilus Thistledown.’
‘I can believe that. I will not try it.’
Returning to the table, he pulled on the gloves again and set about his task, plucking the thistle and a lush, pink bloom from the table and pinching them together.
As Toni watched, captivated, he assembled the artwork with practised hands, adding a flower or a stick of greenery, some eucalyptus, big, pink daisies and fine clusters of white blossoms, with the fluffy heads of the thistles giving the arrangement shape.
After what felt like only a minute, he held a generous bouquet in his fist, lowering it carefully into a vase.
‘Impressive.’
He glanced up at her as he spun the bouquet, studying it critically. ‘A bouquet of wild flowers from my garden isn’t advanced floristry. I do this every day – or nearly every day.’
‘It’s still impressive. And beautiful.’ The pinks and greens, a wild array of shapes and textures that was somehow still harmonious, despite its asymmetric form, looked organic, bringing life into the room.
His smile was grim. ‘Good. Because these flowers are supposed to be an apology.’
Her own smile faded. ‘What for?’
‘Yesterday – everything. I know I can be blunt and the last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable in any way.’
‘You’re the thistle?’ she asked softly.
His smile stretched. ‘I suppose I am. I have grown a little wild out here on my own.’
‘It belongs in this arrangement.’ She reached out carefully, intending to brush her fingertip over the pink petals, but he snatched her hand, drawing it away with a little squeeze that tightened up her lungs again.
She stared at his tough hand swallowing hers, the leathery fingertips sending tingles down her spine with every tiny movement over her skin. The only hand she’d held over the past nine years was a small, vulnerable one. Gabri had said he was prickly, but the pressure of his fingers was tender.
He eased his hold with a tight smile and a swallow. When he spoke, his voice was rough.
‘Best not to touch the thistle.’