The Playboy's Plain Jane

“Sweat?” she echoed, hoping it didn’t sound as if she was saying a dirty word.

“It’s easier to clean an undershirt than the whole jacket.” He unzipped, as if he was actually considering demonstrating, and it seemed as if her life had reached a new low. She was discussing undershirts with Dylan McKinnon.

She held up her hand before he managed to get the jacket off, and he lifted his eyebrows at her, faintly mocking, as if he had guessed she was too long without a man and given to swooning.

“Well,” she said brightly, trying to hide her wild discomfort, “what can I do for you today?”

“Katie, my lady, I need you to just send a little something to, uh—”

“Heather,” she said stiffly.

He grinned. “Yeah, Heather. Thanks.”

“Message?” she asked.

“Uh—”

Katie rapidly calculated in her head. This was Heather’s third bouquet. “Something like, Sorry I forgot?” she prompted him.

If he was the least contrite that his fickle heart was so predictable, he did not show it. He nodded, grinned at her with approval. “Perfect. Oh, and maybe send a little something to Tara, too.”

Since his time with Heather was drawing to a close, she guessed cynically. Tara was always on the back burner. Poor Tara. Poor Heather.

He turned, gave Mrs. Johnson a friendly salute and went out the door. The flower shop, which had seemed cheerful and cozy only moments before, seemed faded and gray, hopelessly dreary, as if he had swept every bit of color and energy out of the room with him.

“Was that really Daredevil Dylan McKinnon of the Toronto Blue Jays?” Mrs. Johnson asked, wide-eyed.

Dylan McKinnon had not thrown a baseball in more than five years. In fact, in Katie’s opinion, he had managed to parlay the shortest career in professional baseball in history into quite a bit more celebrity than he deserved.

“None other,” she said reluctantly.

“My,” Mrs. Johnson said. “My.”

Young. Old. Whatever. Dylan McKinnon simply had that indefinable thing that made him irresistible to the opposite sex.

Pheromones, Katie told herself. He was emitting them with his sweat, a primitive, silent mating call that commanded a woman to choose the biggest, the strongest, the toughest. When he was that handsome, as well, the average woman had very little chance against him. For one with at least a modicum of brains, however, there was no excuse. Though there was no telling what would have happened if he had managed to get the jacket off!

Weakling, she berated herself silently. Outwardly she said “Now about Gertrude’s wreath. What kind of lilies—”

“Does he live around here?” Mrs. Johnson asked eagerly. “My granddaughter is a great fan.”

If you love your granddaughter, keep her away from that man. “I don’t think he lives around here,” Katie offered stiffly. In fact, the head office for his wildly successful sporting goods line was located behind a discreet bronze plaque that read McKinnon two doors down, but Katie saw no reason she should offer that. She’d never be able to find a parking spot if the location of the daredevil’s office and empire became public knowledge to his rabid fans.

“Gertrude’s flowers?” she prompted.

“Oh, yes.”

“Since she liked lilies, what would you think of lily of the valley?” Katie asked. “They signify a return to happiness.”

“Oh, my dear, that is so lovely. Thank you. One of the reasons I shop here is because you know these things.”

In Victorian times, people had always associated meanings with flowers. Katie, as the flower girl, knew those meanings and loved working them into her arrangements.

“It will be a beautiful wreath,” she promised. Already she could see the lilies woven together with babies’ breath.

But she could also see Heather Richards’s bouquet. Perhaps a few snapdragons scattered among yellow roses. A warning of deception and a decrease in love—not that a woman like Heather was ever going to get the meaning.

Like most of the women Dylan McKinnon showed interest in, if they hadn’t had celebrity status before they showed up on his arm, they certainly did after. Heather, however, had held minor celebrity status before, as Miss Hillsboro Bikini. Katie would send some azaleas to Tara: take care of yourself.

“Dylan seemed to know you,” Mrs. Johnson said, almost as if her mind had drifted right along with Katie’s. And right back to him. “He did call you Katie, my lady.”

“Mr. McKinnon is a very good customer.”

“I think it’s very sweet that he has a pet name for you.”

“Well, Mr. McKinnon is a man who has being sweet to women down to a fine art.” And she should know. She had been handling his flower orders since she had opened her shop two doors down from him, just over a year ago.

She didn’t want to be mean-spirited about it, because Dylan McKinnon had always been nothing but charming to her. He had charm down to a science: when she was in the room with him it was hard not to give in to the heady sense that she was the only girl in his world, that he truly cared about her, that he genuinely found her interesting.

But, of course, that was precisely why he could get any woman he batted those amazing lashes at. Besides, he was one of her best customers, and he didn’t just give her a great deal of business, but also spin-off business. Almost all his old girlfriends enjoyed the quality and imaginativeness of her flower arrangements so much that they became her customers.

But she was sure Mrs. Johnson wouldn’t look quite so smitten—ready to deliver her granddaughter in gift wrap and a bow—if she knew the truth.

Despite the appearance of kindness, the truth could be told in the way a man ordered his flowers.

These ones for Heather for example. It was the third time he’d ordered flowers for her. That would make this the make-up bouquet. He’d probably forgotten lunch or left her in the lurch at the opera. Perhaps a few asters, which signified an afterthought, mixed with the snapdragons and roses.

If he followed his pattern, and there was no reason to believe he would not, there would be one more delivery of flowers—the-nice-knowing-you-bouquet—and then Heather would be history, along with the dozen or so others that Dylan had romanced.

A dozen women in a year. That was one a month. It was disgraceful.

And then there were the girls who waited in the wings, who received the occasional bouquet when lust-of-the-month was cooling: Tara, Sarah, Janet, and Margot. Add to that there was a special someone he chose flowers for himself, every Friday without fail.

Sending his flowers was like having a rather embarrassing personal look at his little black book!

It was absolutely shameful, Katie thought, that she could see through that man so clearly, despise his devil-may-care attitude with women, and still run to the window every day to watch the pure poetry of him running, still feel herself blush when he smiled at her or teased her, still feel that disastrous sense of yearning that had always meant nothing but trouble in her well-ordered life.

Dylan McKinnon walked through his office doors, checked his watch. A mile in six and a half minutes. Not bad for a guy about to turn twenty-seven. Not bad at all. His pulse was already back to normal.

He glanced around the reception area with satisfaction. The decor was rich and sensuous, deep-brown leather sofas, a genuine Turkish rug, good art, low lighting. A pot of Katie’s flowers, peach-colored roses that seemed to glow with an inner light, was on the reception desk. All in all, he thought his office was not too bad for a guy who had not even finished college.

“Could you call Erin in design?” he said to the receptionist. “Just tell her I think we should consider making the hood on this jacket removable before it goes into production.” What about zip-on sleeves, since by definition a jacket had sleeves? “Actually, have her call me.”

“All right,” the receptionist said.

Margot was a gorgeous girl; married, thankfully. He did not date women who were married or who worked for him, clearly demonstrating what an ethical guy he was, something that would surprise the hell out of Katie, the flower girl.

Dylan shook off the little shiver of unexpected regret he felt. What did he care if Katie’s disapproval of him telegraphed through her ramrod-stiff spine every time he walked in her store? It was entertaining, he told himself sternly. He’d thought, once or twice, of asking her out—he knew from casual conversations over the year he’d known her, she was single, and something about her intrigued—but she was way more complicated than the kind of girl he liked.