Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Some kind of bells chimed as Denver tugged open the door of Moonbeams and Sweet Dreams. He glanced up automatically, noting the assortment of wind chimes suspended from a grid attached to the high, tin ceiling—glass, copper, bamboo, wood, other metals.
Something for everyone. He shut the door and listened to the quiet tones of drums and flutes that floated out from speakers hidden around the room.
Something dreamy and Celtic that suited the tone of the shop.
The space was long and narrow, with wide-plank floors he suspected were original to the building.
Displays made something of a maze of wares from the front to the back.
It reminded him of the lone trip he’d taken to Ikea—herding you through the entire store before you got to the back and the register.
Except this was clever, cozy, and warm, rather than a coldly calculated retail corral of gleaming fixtures, filled with a herd of shoppers.
Homey instead of Hell on Earth. It helped that there was nobody else here.
Denver wandered through, taking in the pottery, the textiles, the paintings, the carvings, noting the wide and varied selection.
Tiny placards explained, in elegant, looping calligraphy, that all were locally sourced from artists and craftsmen of the region.
Mixed in with the photographs, the sculptures, the glass, were fresh flowers and plants of all kinds—a seamless blending of the two halves of her business.
He could see how somebody might see that vase and immediately want the cluster of whatever those purplish pink flowers were inside it.
A girlie somebody anyway, which was her target demographic.
As Denver was neither, he found the shortest route to the counter and called out, “Misty?”
Something thumped. He heard a muttered curse and a clatter and wondered what he’d interrupted.
She appeared from the back. It was a different kind of flowers in her hair today—something cheerful and yellow, woven into the two small braids pulled back from her face.
He caught himself starting to smile at that before he realized she held her hand aloft, blood dripping down her arm.
He didn’t stop to think. He just vaulted the counter and snatched her hand. “What the hell happened?”
Misty tipped her head back to look up at him, stammering, “I cut myself on some thorns, while stripping some roses. It’s an occupational hazard.”
Her hand felt so tiny in his, but it wasn’t soft as he’d expected.
She worked with her hands, and it showed in the tiny scars from previous nicks and cuts.
He lifted his gaze from her hand to her face, catching those brown eyes that were dreamy more often than not.
They weren’t dreamy now. They’d gone wide and very, very aware.
Denver realized he still held her hand and was all up in her personal space. “Sorry,” he muttered, releasing her and taking a step back.
“I…uh…I’m just gonna go wash this and get some antibiotic ointment.”
He had the distinct impression she was retreating as she headed back through the curtained doorway into what he presumed was a storeroom and work space.
Feeling more than a little bit bull in a china shop, Denver shoved his hands into his pockets and stayed where he was.
That’s when he noticed the old dog curled up on a bed in the corner.
It was a little thing, a ball of black fur, with pointed ears that trembled as she snored quietly.
A Pomeranian mix, maybe. Gray around the muzzle.
“Who’s your friend?” he called.
“That’s Moxie. She was a rescue.”
At the sound of her name, the dog cracked open an eye and peered up at him.
Denver hunkered down and offered the back of his hand.
Looking imperious, Moxie stretched forward just a bit and sniffed.
Her little black nose twitched, then she rose and stretched, worming her way under his hand with a sharp little yap that clearly said, “Pet me, damn it!”
Misty came back out, her hand sporting a couple of fresh band-aids. “I got her when I moved to Eden’s Ridge because I was finally somewhere I could have a dog.”
Following orders, Denver stroked along her little spine, giving the old girl a good rubdown. “Didn’t want a puppy?”
“Oh, I love puppies. But seniors need homes too, and I thought it would be easier to keep an older dog with me all the time. Less rambunctious.”
It took a special kind of person to choose an older dog, the ones who were usually neglected and first up on the chopping block at overcrowded shelters. He admired the hell out of that.
“Seems like she makes up for that with sass,” he observed.
“Hence Moxie,” Misty agreed. “Do you have a dog?”
“Yep. Big old mutt. What my dad used to call a Heinz 57 dog. His name’s Oscar.”
“As in Meyer or The Grouch?”
Denver straightened. “The latter. Though it was because I found him in a dumpster as a pup, not because he’s grumpy.”
Misty’s face twisted with sympathy. “Poor baby.”
“He came out all right. And he’s sure as hell not a baby anymore. He’s a ninety-pound bed hog.”
Misty grinned at that and his brain emptied of everything but Wow. She had a helluva smile.
They lapsed into silence, Misty watching him expectantly. For his part, Denver was trying to remember what the hell he was doing here. Oh yeah.
“So, about this arbor,” he began.
“You really don’t have to do this. I can come up with something on my own. Cayla can be a steamroller, at times.”
A steamroller who’d given him the in he hadn’t managed to come up with on his own. “I’m in it now. Plus, she’ll owe me one. Why don’t you tell me what you were thinking?” He listened as she described what she had in mind. Spying a sketchpad on the counter, he nodded toward it. “You mind?”
Misty nudged it toward him.
In swift strokes, he sketched out what he imagined, based on her description, thinking he knew just where to get the wood. “Something like this, maybe.”
Misty took the pencil from him and began to add to the sketch, refining some details in the carving.
“Are those their initials?” he asked.
“Yeah. Intertwined in a sort of Celtic knot, symbolizing the whole unity of marriage. Can you do that?”
Angling his head, he studied it, seeing how it would work. “Sure.”
She continued, drawing out the flowers she’d add. Denver had to admit the overall effect was beautiful.
“Kennedy will love it,” Misty declared.
“Well, all right then.” Their business was officially concluded.
But he was here, in her shop, actually talking to her, and he didn’t really want to stop.
“We should probably check out the barn, talk measurements and stuff. I expect that would make a difference to how many flowers you’d need, how big I should make the thing. ”
“You make a good point. I close at five-thirty most days, and I’m closed all day on Sunday and Monday.”
“How about Sunday afternoon? Say, four o’clock?”
“That works for me.”
Denver fought back the automatic, It’s a date. He didn’t quite manage to cap the grin as he told her, “I’ll pick you up.” Then he hightailed it out before he made an idiot of himself.
Wear pants.
Wear pants?
Misty stared down at the text from Denver.
What the hell was that about? But she did as he’d asked, unearthing some well-loved jeans that seldom saw much use in the summer.
And since she’d gone that far, she paired them with some hand-tooled leather cowboy boots that had seen many, many years’ love.
The sleeveless, cream peasant blouse made her feel more appropriately summery.
Why was she even worrying about what she wore?
It’s not like this was a date. They were looking at a barn for heaven’s sake. It was a…business arrangement, really.
Except he hadn’t looked at her like he was thinking about business. She didn’t actually know what he’d been thinking, but those gunmetal gray eyes had seemed to look into her—beyond the polite and the surface she’d limited herself to. How could a look be both disconcerting and appealing?
And he’d told her to wear pants.
Misty finally understood why as she stepped outside her shop at four o’clock on Sunday and saw him cruising down Main Street on a motorcycle.
Oh my…
Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive” started up as a soundtrack in her head as he pulled up to the curb and shut off the engine.
Despite the summer weather, he wore a dark brown leather jacket that hugged his bulk and accentuated that incredible shoulder to waist ratio.
There were racing stripes down the sleeves, which seemed to fit with the lines of the motorcycle between his muscular thighs, currently clad in faded jeans.
She couldn’t see his face for the helmet, but she knew it was Denver—it wasn’t the first time she had noticed the bike, or the biker.
Behind the visor, she had the sense he was grinning at her.
Roll your tongue back in, girl.
When he tugged off the helmet, her tongue nearly fell back out of her mouth because, holy hell, Denver Hershal’s smile was lethal.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” she managed.
His gaze skimmed her from head to toe and nodded in approval. “You wore boots, too. Good.” He swung his leg over and dismounted—is that what it was called getting off a steel horse like this?
Misty had never really had an interest in motorcycles, but with this bike, and, more likely, Denver and his leather standing in front of it…
that could change. “That doesn’t look like any motorcycle I’ve ever seen.
It’s way more—” She searched for the right word, and almost said “more” again. “—classy looking.”
“That’s probably because you’re used to seeing nothing but Harleys and crotch rockets.” Denver ran one big hand lovingly over the dark green tank. “This here is Roxanne. She’s a 1981 BMW R100RT, one of the greatest of the airheads.”
Misty had no idea what that meant. “Most women wouldn’t appreciate being called an airhead.”