Smarty Plants (Love Blooms in Kingsville #3)
Chapter 1
1
IRIS
T here’s a lot of muttering going on in the plant shop today. My mother and two younger sisters share a habit of mumbling to themselves when they’re thinking. I’m sure that I do it occasionally myself, but never really notice.
“How could there be a run on tulips this time of year?” Mom murmurs from the front of the shop. “Is this a new trend or something?”
Taking my cup of coffee from the small kitchen, I walk back to the work area just in time to hear Violet mutter, “Pick a theme color. Any color, and I’ll make it work. Just, please, give me a starting point.” She’s hunched over her desk, sketching while glancing at her laptop screen.
“Ugh.” Something rattles, and I look over to see Jasmine rolling her chair across the room back to her desk. “I need a decent screw.”
My coffee nearly comes out my nose. My two younger sisters have recently found boyfriends they are extremely passionate with. I doubt she needs that kind of a screw right now.
Weird. I’m not normally the type to crack myself up with crude jokes. Plunking myself into my desk chair, I sip my coffee while staring blankly at the calendar. Am I feeling out of sorts because I’m slightly jealous that my sisters are in love, or is it just that I haven’t gotten any fresh air for a few days?
I don’t have the greenest thumb in our family, but I know that plants need oxygen. That could be even more important than being ahead of schedule on our paperwork, supply orders and deliveries.
Turning to Jasmine, I feel bad. She looks frazzled. Her job is the one with actual deadlines, and I can’t help very often. Maybe I can today.
“The screws you need – could I get them for you at the hardware store down the street?”
She perks right up. “Yes. Do you have the time?”
“Sure. Give me the packaging so I get the right ones.”
“Sorry, I threw it out. Just ask them for matte black quarter-inch flathead screws.”
I’m already writing it on a notepad. “What aisle? Do you know?”
“Four…I think. Just ask at the counter.” She smirks, shooting me a look. She knows I hate bothering salespeople. “Or just ask some guy in the store who looks like a dad. Dad-types are always happy to help a damsel in distress.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
After another gulp of coffee, I grab my purse and head out the front door, happy to see Mom chatting with a few of her friends in front of the shelf filled with ivy and pothos. Often people come by and chat at the counter for ages. Mom is a social butterfly, although not always the best at talking people into buying something.
Our business isn’t exactly in trouble, now that Violet and Jasmine have secured some corporate accounts. But we do need to keep an eye on daily sales to keep Palmer’s Potted Plants afloat, which we desperately want to do. This is more than a family business. We’ve all found our dream careers here.
In my case, that involves paperwork, numbers, and time to sneak in a little extra reading on my breaks. Steadiness is all I’ve ever truly wanted.
The air outside is extra fresh this morning, and the sun on my face gives me a slight burst of energy as I get to Hanson’s Hardware. I’ve only been inside once, several years ago. It’s a large family-run shop with narrow aisles and plenty of light from the huge windows on two sides.
I remember it being very tidy, but today I can barely see where the aisles are. They are clearly in the middle of taking inventory. I tiptoe around boxes: the place is packed with both customers and items everywhere except the shelves they should be on. With four people in line at the counter, I can’t ask for assistance there.
Threading my way through the chaos, I reach aisle four and see some huge screws that must be for concrete or something. At least I’m in the right area. A deep voice from my left speaks at a low volume, yet is so rich that it makes me startle as I turn toward it.
Oh.
My eyes quickly snap back to the shelves and boxes in front of me, as I’m left with the afterimage of the most stunning man I’ve ever seen. He’s built like a cross between a bodybuilder and a football player, with striking, dark brown eyes. There is no polite reason for me to have noticed how he has the most perfect lips I’ve ever seen on a man. And they’re framed by a short, neat beard that makes me wonder what it would look like just a bit longer and wilder.
Hot. It would look hot. Wait, why am I allowing myself to even think like this?
“How am I supposed to get a permit within forty-eight hours?” he sighs into his phone. “Fine. I’ll look into it and get back to you. Just get the Doyles’ kitchen done today. Thanks.”
I’m not normally the type to speak to strangers, but he looks stressed. And I happen to have a potential solution to his problem.
“Excuse me. The permit office has an open-door policy for rush jobs every Monday from one until three. If you’re in line by twelve-thirty today, you’ll probably be first or second.”
He blinks at me. “Really?”
“Yes. Just bring two copies of all your paperwork and smile a lot. They’re used to angry, flustered people. Trust me, if you’re friendly and calm, they’ll approve pretty much anything.”
His smile triggers an odd, shaky feeling in the pit of my stomach. My lungs feel tight, as if it’s harder to breathe. Maybe it’s because he’s so gorgeous. I’ve never been close to a man who looks like this.
“Do you work in the permit office?”
I stifle a giggle. Since when do I ever giggle ? “No. But my family runs a plant store, and we’ve occasionally helped people with permits if they’re adding large planters to their sidewalks or patio extensions.”
He steps closer. Why is he looking so deeply into my eyes?
“I see. I’m Ben, of Abbot Carpentry & Renovations.”
“Iris. Of, um, Palmer’s Potted Plants.”
He shakes my hand gently, his rough palm taking its time before it eventually releases its grip. “What is a plant expert looking for here?” He waves vaguely toward the various nuts and bolts.
Do not, repeat not, tell him you need a screw. I stifle another giggle, trying to ignore the warmth that is swirling through my stomach every time our eyes meet. “I need…hang on…” I fish out my notepad and recite. “Matte black quarter-inch flathead screws.”
Ben nods, then threads his way down the cluttered aisle. “The construction stuff is always at the front. You need the fancy ones.” He holds up a packet. “Like this?”
I take a good look, but it’s hard to focus when it feels like Ben is studying the side of my face. We’re standing very close together in this narrow space crammed with boxes: if I turned my shoulders a few inches I could rest my head on his broad chest. Why am I even thinking such things about a total stranger? Did someone spike my morning coffee?
“Thank you. I assume these are right. My sister is the builder, not me.”
Ben turns over the hand that is holding the screws, examining my nails. They’re short, rounded, with a coat of clear polish. “You’re the bookkeeper.”
Laughter sputters out of me. “Correct.”
His phone rings and I step away, giving him some privacy to answer it. He declines the call with a swipe of his thumb, then catches me lightly by the elbow. “Is there anything else you need here? I know this store like the back of my hand, even during the dreaded inventory week.”
“Oh. No, I’m good. Thank you for your help.” Can he hear the way my voice is shaking slightly? This goes beyond my usual shyness. I’m flustered by the way this guy is drawing me in with his soft smile and rich voice.
His phone rings again. The second he glances at the screen, his face falls. “I’m sorry, I?—”
I wave goodbye with a smile. “No problem. Thanks, have a great day!”
Thankfully there is no line by the time I get to the front counter, so I’m on my way before Ben finishes his call.
I’m not sure what that prickly, restless feeling was when I was so close to him. Desire, of course. I mean, the man is hot . But it felt like much more.
Hmm. I don’t think I’m ready to have feelings like that for a sexy older man who would never really be interested in a quiet bookkeeper like me. It would just be courting unnecessary drama, and that would lead to disaster.