The Best Gift. Irene Hannon

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СКАЧАТЬ loose-fitting outfit had become plastered to her skin. Her face flushed a deep red, and with her free hand she tried to pry the fabric away. When that attempt was unsuccessful, she tugged her other hand from Blake’s and took a step back. “I’ll see you Monday at nine.” Her voice sounded a bit breathless.

      “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

      “Yes. And a real estate agent lined up tomorrow to look at apartments.”

      He nodded. “Can I loan you an umbrella? It’s still pouring.”

      She backed toward the door. “There’s not much point now, is there?”

      He glanced at the puddle on the floor in the spot she had just vacated. “True.”

      The crimson of her face went a shade deeper and her step faltered. “Oh…I’m sorry about that. I can clean it up, if you have a mop or…”

      “Ms. Williams,” Blake cut her off, but his tone was cordial. “I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you follow your own advice? Take a hot bath and have a hot meal. We’ll make a fresh start on Monday. Okay?”

      A.J. studied him for a moment. Did she detect a softening in his manner, a slight warmth in his tone? Or was it resignation? Or perhaps pity, because she was cold and wet and hungry and had a trying trip to St. Louis? Or was it pity for himself, because he’d been saddled with a partner who would need to be guided every step of the way?

      If he thought the latter, he was in for a big surprise come Monday. But for now, she was cold, wet and hungry—and definitely not at her best. So she needed to exit. As gracefully as possible.

      With a curt nod, she turned toward the door. And tried not to run.

      Chapter Two

      At precisely nine o’clock Monday morning, A.J. knocked on the door at Turning Leaves. It was a gloriously sunny Indian summer day in mid-November, and as she waited for Blake to let her in, she surveyed the scene with a smile. Though Maplewood was a close-in suburb of St. Louis, this section had a small-town feel. The tree-lined streets and mom-and-pop shops hearkened back to another era, and morning walkers were already putting in their paces.

      The door rattled, then swung inward as she turned back toward the shop. Blake stood on the other side, his clothes similar to what he’d worn on Friday except that he’d exchanged his blue oxford shirt for a yellow one, and his sleeves weren’t yet rolled up. His hair was damp, as if he’d showered very recently.

      “Good morning.” She glanced at her watch. “You said nine o’clock, right?”

      Blake ignored her question. If she expected him to compliment her punctuality, she would be sorely disappointed. It was the least he expected. Besides, he was still trying to reconcile the woman standing across from him now with the bedraggled waif who had dripped water all over his floor Friday night. Her hair was lighter in color than he remembered, and her topknot of natural curls was firmly in place. A few rebellious tendrils had fought their way out of the confining band to softly frame her face, which still seemed to be mostly makeup free. A touch of lipstick, perhaps some mascara, maybe a hint of blush—though the color in her cheeks could well be natural, he concluded. The sparkle in her eyes certainly was, enhanced by her open, friendly smile. It suddenly struck him that A. J. Williams was an extremely attractive woman. Not that he cared, of course.

      When he didn’t respond to her greeting, she turned again and made a sweeping gesture. “Isn’t it a glorious day?”

      Blake glanced around the familiar landscape. He’d jogged his usual eight miles before coming to work, but in all honesty he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings. He’d been thinking about his training schedule for the upcoming triathlon, a late order that he needed to follow up on at the shop, invoices that needed to be reconciled…and a myriad of other things.

      “Just look how blue the sky is,” A.J. enthused. “And the sun feels so warm for November! I guess you haven’t had a hard freeze yet, because the geraniums and petunias still look great.”

      Blake looked at the sky, then glanced at the flowers in the planters along the street. He wouldn’t have noticed either if A.J. hadn’t pointed them out. And for some reason her comment made him feel as if he should have. Which aggravated him. He didn’t need any guilt trips. What he needed was time to brief his new partner before the shop opened.

      “If you’re ready to come in, we can get started,” he said shortly.

      A.J. turned back to him and tilted her head. “No time to smell the flowers along the way, Mr. Sullivan?”

      “I have work to do.” His voice sounded unnaturally stiff even to his own ears.

      “I think God would appreciate it if we took a moment to admire His handiwork, don’t you?”

      “I’m sure God has better things to think about. If He cares at all.”

      A.J. raised one eyebrow. “Do I detect a note of cynicism in that comment?”

      Blake shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s just say I haven’t seen much evidence that God cares.”

      A.J.’s eyes grew sympathetic. “That’s too bad. Because He does.”

      Blake frowned impatiently. “Look, can we just get down to business? Because we’ve only got an hour before the shop opens, and I’d like to show you around before the customers start coming.”

      “Absolutely. I’m ready whenever you are.”

      He stepped aside, and as she swept past he caught a faint, pleasing fragrance. Not floral. Not exotic. Just…fresh. It seemed to linger even after she moved away.

      A.J. took a moment to look over the shop, something she hadn’t done Friday night. As she completed her circuit, her gaze returned to Blake. He was still at the door, and he was staring at her. She couldn’t quite read the expression in his eyes, but it looked as if he’d found something else to disapprove of. Her chin lifted a notch.

      “Anything wrong?” She tried to keep her tone mild, but a note of defiance crept in.

      Blake studied her attire. She wore a white peasant-type blouse in some wrinkly fabric, and a funky bronze cross hung from a chain around her neck. An unusual metal belt cinched her impossibly small waist. Her skirt, made of several progressively longer layers of what appeared to be a patchwork of fabrics, brushed her legs mid-calf. If his attire bordered on preppy, hers could well be described as hippie. Which did not evoke happy memories.

      “Mr. Sullivan, is something wrong?” she repeated more pointedly.

      He frowned. “I haven’t seen clothes like that in a long time.”

      She looked down and smoothed her skirt over her hips. “Probably not. They’re from a vintage clothing store I discovered in Chicago. Pretty cool, huh?”

      Actually, he had another word for her attire. But he settled for a less judgmental term. “Interesting.”

      The look she gave him told him very clearly that she knew exactly what his opinion was. And that, in turn, she had judged him to be stuffy, uptight and conventional. “Very diplomatic. I wasn’t sure you had it in you.” Before he could respond, she turned back to СКАЧАТЬ