was the dust, he told himself, refusing to be dizzy. The fact that he didn’t actually see any dust was inconsequential. Everyone knew antiques attracted dust. Salt and pepper, pretzels and beer, antiques and dust. Just one more reason he didn’t want to be here, looking at shelf after shelf of useless junk when he didn’t even know what the hell he was looking for.
Liar. He knew exactly what he had come looking for, exactly what it was he wanted from Rose Davenport. He wanted her help. The problem was asking for it. He was no good at asking for help. In fact, he flat out hated it. Almost as much as he hated needing it in the first place. Being needy was even worse.
And he ought to know. In the past year he’d been forced to accept more help from more people than most men do in a lifetime. Doctors. Physical therapists. Even neighbors. And shrinks, don’t forget the shrinks. Without their “help,” he wouldn’t have done such a bang-up job of adapting and adjusting and accepting the fact that life as he knew it was over. Kaput. Finished. And the fact that his old life was the only life he had any interest in living? Why, that was just one of those inconvenient, lingering, post-accident stages that they insisted he would emerge from. One of these days.
But not today.
Today, this moment, it all added up to one thing; a burning urge to toss the chatty deliveryman out on his behind and get on with it. The other guy might be younger and fitter and faster, but Griff could feel a bigger chip on his shoulder and had been spoiling for a fight longer. That gave him the edge. The only thing holding him back from wiping the grin off Charlie’s face was the look on Rose’s. Pure ecstasy.
The way her eyes had lit up the second she saw the truck, you’d have thought it was Ed McMahon walking in with the grand prize check in his hand. Griff might not appreciate the appeal of a package jockey in shorts, but clearly Rose did—and he wasn’t about to risk ticking her off.
On the contrary, he was going to say and do whatever was necessary to stay in her good graces, until he found out what he needed to know. For starters, that meant keeping his thoughts about almost everything, especially his plans for the house, to himself. It also precluded telling her outright that throwing a party for him was a waste of time since he wouldn’t be hanging around long enough to make friends. And above all, it meant not slipping up and referring to her junk as junk.
With that in mind, Griff picked up a battered metal watering can and tried to look fascinated.
The Jerk held out his clipboard. “Care to sign your life away?” he asked Rose in a tone that made it clear it wasn’t only her signature he was after.
“For you, Charlie?” She smiled as she scrawled her name. “Anytime. And thanks. I owe you.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He executed a tight circle with the cart and winked at her. “See you tomorrow, Rose. Enjoy your new chintz teapot.”
“I plan to…and if you’re real good maybe I’ll invite you to tea sometime.”
Griff managed not to snort.
“I’m at your disposal,” said Charlie.
“Don’t you mean ‘mercy’?”
“That, too,” he called over his shoulder, laughing.
“’Bye, Charlie.”
Rose carefully slit the tape on the first box and began unpacking the contents. In her excitement, she almost forgot she wasn’t alone in the shop. Almost. It was impossible for a woman to actually forget the presence of a man like Griffin. As she carefully unwrapped each piece, checked it off on her order sheet and inspected it for damage, she also tracked his movement around the shop, curious as to what he might find of interest.
Not much, judging from his indifferent expression. She, on the other hand, was just bursting with interest. She wasn’t sure how a man using a cane managed to project such an air of invincibility, but somehow Griff succeeded. She had a hunch that it had something to do with world-class shoulders and the way his wash-softened jeans fit his thighs, but she didn’t want to dwell on it. His posture didn’t hurt, either, she decided. She had never realized it until now, but there was a lot to be said for a man with great posture.
He paused to look at some old wooden bookends with woodpecker carvings, and he actually picked up one of a pair of ceramic hummingbirds and glanced at the bottom.
Finally, he came to stand across the counter from her, the purposeful glint in his eye a bit unnerving in spite of his reassuring connection to Devora.
“Look…” he began.
Rose flashed him a smile. “Find anything you can’t live without?”
“Not quite.” The words were hardly out when his forehead creased, intensifying his grim expression. “That is, except for…” His gaze raked across the counter—now covered with plates and teacups named for the brightly flowered fabric that had inspired them—and landed on the hydrangea garland. Looking vaguely relieved, he reached for it. “This—”
Rose was aghast. “That?”
“Right.” He glanced at the price tag without flinching, and reached for his wallet.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Very sure.”
“You don’t think it’s a bit…pricey?”
“Not at all. It’s a bargain, in fact, and exactly what I had in mind.”
“For what?”
He looked up from the stack of bills he was thumbing through. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was wondering what you had a nine-foot-long garland of dried hydrangea in mind for? What do you plan to do with it?” she added, when he stared at her in what looked like bewilderment.
“Do?” He looked at the garland with a blank expression.
Please change your mind, Rose pleaded silently.
“I thought I would use it…on the porch.”
“The porch?” she gasped, horrified. “Aren’t you afraid the dampness will ruin it?”
“Good point.”
“I have a wicker plant stand that would be perfect on Devora’s porch,” she told him. “Maybe with a gorgeous Boston fern? Ferns love humidity.”
He shook his head.
“Geraniums?”
“I’m not much for plants. This thing is fine. I’ll figure out what to do with it once I get it home.”
“I see.” She grabbed a stack of pastel tissue and began wrapping it, doing her best not to look perturbed. As he had pointed out, this was a place of business. How was he to know that just because a “thing” had a price tag did not mean it was actually ready to be sold?
With the garland lovingly wrapped and gently arranged in a shopping bag, she wrote out a receipt and calculated the sales tax.
“That will be two hundred and sixty-seven dollars and fifty cents,” she
