The Groom's Revenge

Although her heart rate zoomed from a waltz tempo to a thundering hard-rock beat, Mollie continued to fill a round vase with summer flowers as she watched Gray approach her shop around noon the next day. Daisy petals quivered as she slid the bloom amongst the others, her hands shaking. Last night she’d prowled her apartment until midnight, watched an old movie that made her cry, then finally fell asleep on the sofa. Her normally hazy, romantic dreams of Gray had been replaced with sharp, vivid images of him in the flesh.

He crossed the threshold, eyeing Yarg as he entered. His blue jeans showed off narrow hips and long legs. His baby blue T-shirt didn’t fit like a second skin, but didn’t mask his muscular torso, either. She pursed her lips, trapping an admiring sigh.

“Good day, Miss Shaw,” he said as he reached the counter.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ye!”

Mollie’s gaze flickered to the screeching leprechaun. “And from Yarg and myself, Mr. McGuire.”

“Is there a volume control on that thing?”

“Just an on-off switch. I guess I’ve gotten used to it.” She wondered whether Gray’s real-life kissing technique would do justice to her dreams. Could anyone compete with a dream? “I hope you’ve come to put me out of my misery.”

“Did the suspense get to you?”

“I’m not too good at delayed gratification,” she said, openly flirting with him, trying to get a response. Instead he walked to the front window and stared outside, ignoring her.

Chagrined, she held her ground. Late last night she’d reread all the articles she’d saved about him. While he spoke freely about his work and vision, his personal life was apparently taboo. Speculation abounded, fueled only by brief quotes from women he’d allegedly dated. Some called him distracted and distinctly unromantic, one woman went so far as to brand him as “cold.”

Which apparently hadn’t stopped the woman from dating him more than once. Mollie wouldn’t call him cold. Steady, perhaps. Not given to mood swings. And the allegation about not being romantic... was probably true. She figured his mind was a minicomputer in which he probably maintained a mental agenda. Mollie was apparently an item on that list, and he would get to her in his own time.

He seemed to jar himself back into awareness as a dark-haired man wearing a brown delivery uniform breezed into the shop carrying a large box. “Hey, Mollie. I see you’ve joined the twentieth century just in time for the twenty-first.”

“What kind of riddle is that, Mike?”

He set the package on the floor beside the counter. “Your computer.”

“Computer? Me? I didn’t—” She narrowed her eyes at Gray, who leaned an elbow against the countertop and watched her impassively. “There’s been a mistake. You can load it right back on the truck.”

“There’s no mistake. I’ll be back with the rest of the stuff in a minute. You’ll need to sign for ’em.”

She waited until Mike climbed back into his truck, then she planted her fists on her hips. “That’s your company logo on the box,” she said after studying the package.

“I believe you’re night.”

“I can’t accept that kind of gift.”

“Did I say it was a gift?”

She sputtered. He expected her to pay for something she hadn’t ordered? And didn’t want? This was not the man of her dreams. Not even close. That man respected her, acknowledged her as an intelligent and independent person and admired her business sense. But the man standing in front of her had decided after a half-hour conversation that he knew her well enough to tell her how to run her business.

“I can’t pay for this,” she said, forcing the words out.

“I don’t send a computer unsolicited, then expect someone to pay for it, Mollie.”

“But you said it wasn’t a gift.”

“It isn’t”

“Well. That’s crystal clear.”

Gray enjoyed her temper, bright as a newly minted penny. “Sign for the delivery and I’ll explain.”

“I’ll just be calling in a pickup order for tomorrow.”

“That’ll be your decision. For now, just accept it. Please,” he said. Mike returned in time to overhear their discussion.

She cursed Gray with her eyes but scrawled her name across the signature pad when Mike slid it across the counter, grinning.

“He won’t keep Jus mouth shut,” she almost growled when they were alone again. “Everyone up and down the block will know.”

“I wasn’t the one making a fuss,” Gray said mildly.

“I would expect a man like you to get to the point,” she said through clenched teeth.

“A man like me?”

“Brilliant. Analytical.” She frowned. “Although People magazine also called you quirky.” She lost her fighting edge for a moment as she seemed to think about that.

Had she gone to the library last night and read up on him? He never had figured out why that reporter had labeled him as quirky, a definition Gray would never apply to himself. He’d told her she could ask questions while he jogged his eight miles, because he didn’t have time for her otherwise. Did that make him quirky? Or efficient?

“You work hard and you’re ambitious,” he said to Mollie. “I respect that You’re trying to take what’s already a charming little shop and make it more upscale, to attract new business, right?”

“Without losing any of the old customers.” Diverted from her argument, she mirrored his pose across the counter, leaning toward him.

“The coffeehouse down the block draws a different crowd into the area,” he said.

“There’s a lot of revitalization going on here. New businesses are mushrooming. There’s a lot of potential business because the neighborhood has changed. I would’ve moved my business here, if I hadn’t already been here.”

He nodded. He’d done some quick research on the subject. An infusion of cash would certainly help her give a fresh new look to her shop. “The whole area is on the brink of a renaissance.”

“And I want to be ready.”

“Then you’ll need to computerize your business.”

“Why?”

“For one, when you get on the Internet, you can locate other florists and see what they’re doing. You won’t believe the doors that will open to you.”

Interest flashed in her eyes before she clamped her mouth shut and pushed away from the counter. “Why do you care?”

He’d come up with his new plan last night, pleased with his solution. He had to buy himself some tune, let her get to know him, then convince her to help him ruin Stuart Fortune. For now, though, he just needed a reason to keep her in close contact.

“I want you to plan my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party.”

Surprise widened her eyes. “Twenty-fifth? But—”

“My mother and stepfather,” he said.