He blushed, which struck her as sweeter still.
“I’m very glad you dropped in,” she told him. Then, with laughter in her voice, she added, “Though from your initial reaction, I suspect I wasn’t quite the sort of ‘old’ friend of Devora’s you expected to find.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’ve been just one surprise after another, Miss Davenport.”
“Rose.”
“Rose.”
“I know what I’m going to do,” she said suddenly.
“What?” He looked vaguely uneasy.
“I’m going to throw a party in honor of your arrival.”
Now he really looked uneasy. Shy, thought Rose, surprised a second time. Shyness didn’t fit with his outward appearance. Or with her first impression of him, she realized, ashamed of herself. Maryann was right. She was so gun-shy around certain men that she never gave them a chance. She would work on it, she decided, and she would begin by making up for her rush to judgment by heralding Hollis Griffin’s move to town in style.
“A party is…out of the question,” he said.
“Nonsense, it’s the least I can do for Devora’s favorite nephew.”
“I was her only nephew.”
“All the more reason to make you feel welcome.”
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble on my account.”
“It’s no trouble,” she assured him. “You’re actually doing me a favor by providing me with an excuse to throw a party between the Fourth of July and Labor Day, a period with a notable dearth of occasions to celebrate.”
“I am not an occasion.”
“Of course not, but your arrival in Wickford is. It’s also all the excuse I need. Ask anyone—I am a party planner extraordinaire.”
“I’m sure you are. But as luck would have it, I am a lousy guest of honor.”
“Let me worry about that,” she ordered, thinking he was probably right. For all his professional skills and accomplishments, he was not very good at making friends. Not if his guarded, taciturn demeanor with her was any indication. No wonder he tended to “keep to himself,” as he put it. Well, Devora wouldn’t have let that happen, and neither would Rose.
She folded her arms and grinned at him. “It’s settled. We’ll work out the details later,” she added as she caught sight of the delivery truck pulling up outside. “Right now, you’ll have to excuse me.”
She moved toward the door.
“No.”
The adamancy in his tone caused Rose to glance over her shoulder as she opened the door.
He smiled stiffly. “That is, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll hang around and—” He cleared his throat. “Browse a little, after all.”
“Fine. Good morning, Charlie,” she said to the deliveryman, whose uniform of brown shirt and shorts revealed a pair of great masculine legs. Charlie was young and adorable. Too young and adorable to be seriously interesting to a grown woman, but he had great legs just the same. Rose shipped and received packages daily, and the mild flirtation that enlivened her dealings with Charlie had more to do with keeping skills sharp than real attraction on either side.
“Am I ever glad to see you,” she said, eyeing his push cart loaded with boxes.
“Me? Or my boxes of chintz?”
“My boxes of chintz,” she corrected, trailing along like an overeager puppy in her attempt to read the return address labels as he moved past her. “Is it really? Are you sure?”
“Yep.” He parked the cart and began lifting the boxes onto the counter for her. “Unless you’re expecting another delivery from…” He squinted at the return address. “Biddley-on-Kenn. Hell, no wonder they call it Merry Olde England—they all live in circus towns.”
She gave a small whoop of excitement. “It is my chintz. Charlie, you’re wonderful.”
“You don’t know how wonderful. The schedule had me coming by here late this afternoon, but I switched my entire route around for you.”
“Can I help it if I’m irresistible?”
“Actually, I figured since you’ve been harassing me about this stuff daily—”
“I have not harassed you,” she admonished, her fingers itching to tear open the boxes and get at the fine bone china that a British dealer had sworn on the Magna Carta would be there three weeks ago. Some pieces were earmarked for specific customers; others were for the shop; a precious two were destined for her personal collection.
“You don’t call chasing my truck down the street ‘harassment’?”
“Charlie, you wish I’d chase you,” she retorted absently.
The deliveryman grinned. “You bet I do. I wouldn’t be hard to catch, I promise you that, Rosie.”
Jerk, thought Griff, surreptitiously monitoring the interplay.
Rose Davenport had thrown him a curve at first, but the longer he spent in her presence, the easier it was to understand why, in spite of the vast difference in age, she and Devora had hit it off. As Devora might have put it, “Water seeks its own level.” Beneath those smoldering green eyes and that just-begging-to-be-kissed mouth of hers, Rose Davenport definitely harbored the same streak of insanity that had afflicted his great-aunt.
A flaky, clutter-collecting, overly friendly junk addict if he’d ever seen one. Her shop might not be quite as over-stuffed and smothering as Devora’s place, but she hadn’t been at it as long. Give her time, and she’d give Devora some real competition.
Peering at the shopkeeper over a vase the color of moldy roses, he tried to imagine her thirty years older, wearing white gloves and a blouse buttoned high at the neck, instead of that pale yellow dress that hung nearly to her ankles. By all rights the dress should have made her appear dowdy, and concealed the fact that she had a slim waist, perfectly rounded hips and very nice, very long legs. It didn’t. Taking advantage of her preoccupation with the delivery guy, Griff gave the dress his complete attention and decided it was because of the way the material molded itself to her body. Every distracting inch of it.
A sundress. He was no expert on women’s clothing, but he’d removed enough of it over the years to learn the basics, and he was pretty sure that was the name for what she was wearing. Whatever it was called, it was screwing up his attempt to picture Rose Davenport with a brooch at her throat.
The woman had a sexy throat. He’d give her that much. Her shoulders weren’t bad, either. Smooth and suntanned, and the crisscrossed straps of her dress presented a clear-cut invitation for a man to slide his fingers underneath and slowly, slowly peel them down. An invitation he’d bet wasn’t lost on the deliveryman with the salivating grin any more than it was lost on Griff.
His
