The Bouquet List (3 page)

Chapter Three

Yasmin sat in the apartment the next morning, thumbing the gold-edged piece of white card containing the bouquet list she’d written on the flight from Singapore. For something so significant, typing a list on her phone hadn’t seemed quite right. It needed to be written out the old-fashioned way, with rich black ink in a loopy, flowing script. The card smelled like her grandmother’s linen closet and she took an extra sniff. It was the scent of a bouquet, bright and positive and full of promise. Perfect.

She picked up the sleek black pen she’d bought with the card at a fancy stationery store in Singapore and put a tick beside the first three items on the list, and satisfaction flowed through her. She’d called her professor last night, and while he hadn’t been happy with her decision to take a year’s break from her PhD, he’d said he’d get in touch at the end of the semester and hoped she’d consider coming back then.

Her pen hovered above number four—learn a new language. She’d already downloaded a course in Italian onto her iPod, but she wouldn’t tick that entry until she could at least hold a brief conversation. There was a new pizza place downtown that looked authentic. Maybe she could work up to ordering a full meal when she and Genie went out sometime.

Ten had seemed a nice round number for her list, but she’d come up with only nine so far. Something was sure to come to her, though, in the form of a crazy adventure sport to try, or a new way of dressing. She’d been experimenting with bright colors, but now with the purple streaks in her hair, she needed to think carefully about what clashed. Last night when Genie came over, she’d put on her favorite turquoise sweater and had ended up looking like a virulent disease molecule. Everything had always gone with black, so this would take thinking about.

Her gaze moved to number five and a thrill shot through her.
Seduce a man who’s out of your league. Tall, dark, and mysterious. No chickening out!

Tall, dark, mysterious—not to mention sexy as all get-out—Lane certainly fit the criteria for number five, but why not go after one of the Italian men in the pizza place? Well, for one, it made much more sense to try to seduce a man she had background information on. At least she knew Lane wasn’t a serial killer. And besides, being her brother’s best friend kinda made him even more out of her league, didn’t it? And that would make the challenge of seducing him all the more authentic and satisfying.

The fact that never in her life had she tried to seduce anyone, especially someone like Lane, was the tiny matter she’d need to address. Genie had eagerly offered advice on her plan last night. Exploit plenty of tactile moments, she’d said—the hair touching, the gazing with deep and uninterrupted concentration whenever he talked, the hand brushing, the lip moistening—it had all become a jumble by the end of the night. Maybe she should write a list for that too?

Time to pull herself together. If she’d succumbed to the fear of getting a piercing or changing her hair color, she wouldn’t have experienced the sense of lightness and freedom that doing something so un-Yasmin could give her. And she
did
feel great. Until a car door closed downstairs and butterflies took flight in her belly.

She checked out the window for the hundredth time that morning, and sure enough it was Lane. He drove a late-model European car. An Aston Martin? A Mercedes? She wasn’t sure, but it was sleek and silver, and as he unfolded his frame from the driver’s seat and did up the button on his jacket, she found a little more resolve to follow through with her plan. He was even more gorgeous than the million memories she had of him from yesterday.

His suit was different today though; this one was inky blue and the shirt collar beneath it was cream. It set the light tan of his skin off so beautifully she couldn’t help wondering what he’d look like in something more casual, a T-shirt and jeans for example. Or maybe a tank top and shorts—an outfit that showed more of the fine muscles she just knew lay beneath that business look. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and it stayed in exactly the same perfect style. No, she couldn’t imagine Lane Griffiths ever wearing a tank top and board shorts. His pajamas probably came as a three-piece suit with a built-in tie. She swallowed as she imagined Lane in pajamas. And then not in pajamas, or anything else…

The doorbell chimed and she shook herself from her X-rated thoughts. She quickly blew on the ink to make sure it was dry, popped the card back in its little plastic sleeve, then raced down the stairs.

“Good morning,” she said when she pulled the door open. “I’m glad you knew to come to the apartment instead of the house. I forgot to tell you I was staying here.”

“I’ve been here a few times since your parents moved,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m a little early.” He looked down as he wiped his feet. “I’m finding the lack of a job a bit of a challenge.”

He’d been back regularly? “No problem.” She stood aside and let him pass. She thought of the way she’d felt when she’d woken without an alarm this morning. No textbooks on her nightstand, no thesis deadline to meet. The only thing she’d felt was excitement that she was going to get reacquainted with Lane, and this time he wasn’t going to have a choice but to notice her.

She took a deeper breath as his scent drifted past, a delicious soap-and-freshly-shaved aroma that she’d be happy to breathe all day.

“I was always in the restaurant or behind my desk at seven thirty, so all this time on my hands makes me a bit antsy.” He turned to her and their eyes met. His lips tilted in a sexy smile. Warmth prickled across the back of her neck, and her mouth became dry at the thought of what she’d vowed for herself this morning.

She
could
seduce a man like Lane Griffiths. Of course she could. They were both young and, she desperately hoped, unattached; it was summer; and they had an excuse to spend a whole lot of time together. But did he even find her attractive? There’d been the comment about her hair yesterday, and she thought she’d caught him checking her out while she was eating that scone, but then he’d poured cold water on all her ideas—maybe he saw her as a pain in the butt?

As he moved through the hallway, she realized they were both in a bit of a transition phase: he’d sold his businesses and she’d decided to turn her life upside down. She didn’t think she’d ever have the problem of needing to get to work early, though.

“Leo, the chef, won’t be in the kitchen for another hour. He won an award at a culinary thing last night for a side business he has, so I told him to come in late. I can show you around the restaurant first if you like. Or would you rather have a coffee?”

“If there’s a wait, a coffee would be good.”

The thought of being alone with him, chatting about their next few weeks together, almost caused her to lose her nerve.
No chickening out!
“Just go to the top of the stairs.”

He started up the stairs in front of her, back straight, body in perfect alignment.

Despite the fact that she’d known him for years, there was still this formality between them, as if he had a barrier around himself. For the first time she registered that he was holding a briefcase. Did people still do that? On a Sunday? With the ability to carry documents on laptops and smartphones, what was the point? She couldn’t help but wonder what he had hidden away inside there.

“The Palace hasn’t changed much at all,” he said. “Your parents have invited me to every Easter Sunday lunch since I was about ten.”

He reached the top and she moved in front of him to the kitchen. “I guess that’s part of the whole problem with the Palace. Mom and Dad haven’t had the energy or direction—or the money, I guess—to change things up.”

Lane perched on a stool at the counter and picked up an empty Pop-Tart packet as if it were a dead mouse. “Breakfast?”

She leaned forward and grabbed it from him. “That’s all there was in the cupboard.”

One dark eyebrow rose slowly and his eyes sparkled. She swallowed. “You’ll need your strength if you intend to be completely involved in this renovation.”

“There’s a lot of strength in a Pop-Tart,” she said, stuffing the wrapper into the trash to avoid his gaze. She reminded herself not to tell him about being sick. She didn’t need him any more dubious about her abilities than he already was. “Leo will make us something nice for lunch, I’m sure.”

He patted his briefcase. “It’s okay. I have a packed lunch.”

So that’s what was in there. She could imagine he’d carefully made sandwiches, ensuring all the nutritional groups were represented, and that they were cut in equilateral triangles. “I bet you make a good one.”

“I don’t have time to make my own,” he said, dismissively. “I have a regular order with my local Sandwich Sensation and they have it waiting for me each morning.”

She gaped at him. “You mean you have the same thing for lunch every day?”

He scoffed. “Of course not. Sunday is turkey day.”

“Then what do you have on the real Turkey Day?”

There was a pause. “Sandwich Sensation is closed so I get lunch from one of my restaurants.”

She turned around and took two cups from a high cupboard and allowed herself a quick grin while she was at it. Just as well he was so irresistible, or his straitlaced routine might start to put her off.

Tring!
The mindfulness bell on her phone went off, and its long, musical note floated around the room. She certainly didn’t need reminding to be in the moment right now. She was having no problems focusing on the man in front of her.

“That’s an interesting ringtone,” he said, frowning. “Sounds like a particularly annoying doorbell.”

She just smiled, certain that the idea of mindfulness would seem kooky to a man like Lane.

“What were you doing overseas, anyway?” he asked as she turned back to him.

She took the carafe of coffee and poured a mug for him, and waited while water boiled for her tea. “I was doing research for my PhD—studying nitrogen nutrition and isotopic discrimination in ectomycorrhizal fungi, to be precise.”

He didn’t bat an eyelid. “Fungi?”

“Mushrooms, toadstools, truffles. They all have their charms.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

“
Laccaria amethystina
, the amethyst deceiver.”

He lifted the mug and grinned. “Sounds like some sort of sneaky assassin.”

She laughed. “It’s not quite that exciting, but it kinda grows on you—if you’ll excuse the fungi pun. Mycologists get a bit of a bad rap for having no sense of humor, but you can always make jokes about being a ‘fun guy’ or whether there’s ‘mush room’ in here.”

Lane looked at her deadpan. “No shiitake.”

She laughed out loud. Was that the first even slightly amusing thing he’d said since yesterday? Was there actually a funny bone within that body full of self-confident aloofness?

She tipped her mug at him. “You’re good.”

The eyebrow again. “I know.”

The air sizzled and she absently put the mug to her lips before she realized it was empty.

“I’m glad to hear you’re still studying. After I saw you, I mean at the…when we met again yesterday, you weren’t how I remembered.”

“I’m taking time out from my PhD, and do you mean I was dull and conservative before?”

“I don’t remember you being dull, but yes, I do remember you wearing overalls and glasses that gave the impression you were doing some spot-welding,” he said in a teasing voice.

“I’m still as blind as a bat; I just wear ten-inch-thick contacts now.” She squinted at him for effect and then poured water onto her tea bag. “We can take these out into the courtyard if you like.”

“Sure.”

“Do you live close by?” she asked when they were downstairs and walking through the corridor that led out into the restaurant courtyard. There wasn’t a wedding today, so everything was quiet. “I remember you lived over on Robinson Street. Are your parents still there?” As soon as she’d said it, she wished the ground would open up and swallow her. He’d always had two homes, one on Robinson and the other on Green, and he’d spent as much time at the Palace as he could to avoid each of them.

“My mother still lives on Robinson, but my father lives in the city now. The newest Prescott Hotel’s in Manhattan so I’ll move when we’ve finished here. I’ll be living and breathing my new restaurant come December and I won’t want any distractions.”

They’d stepped into the courtyard, the sun glaring bright as it reflected off the whitewashed walls of the restaurant. Brilliant magenta bougainvillea cascaded down at intervals and, as she did every time she entered this courtyard, Yasmin felt like a breath of fresh air had been blown across her soul.

A loud noise came from the corner of the courtyard. “That’s gotta be Monty.”

Yasmin turned to him and smiled. “Yep, he’s fifteen now, and still as cheeky as ever. He swears in about ten different languages, I think.” They walked over to the parrot’s cage, and Yasmin reached into her pocket for a peanut. Monty bounced up and down on the perch he was sitting on and nodded his head.

“Hey, Monty.” Lane’s rich voice was deeper than ever as he peered into the cage and talked quietly to the bird. He put his briefcase down and leaned closer. “No, I’m not going to put my fingers through the bars because I remember you can be a cantankerous old buzzard.”

“I’m going to strangle that bird’s neck, strangle that bird’s neck!” Monty squawked. “Mano, I’ll strangle that bird’s neck!”

“That’s my mom’s voice.” Yasmin laughed. “Can you hear his Greek accent? Every time Mom hears Monty cuss, she says she’ll wring his neck but she loves him more than anyone.”

Lane pushed both hands into his trouser pockets and gave her a serious look. “How do you think things are with your parents?”

Yasmin held one of the bars of Monty’s cage. “I don’t really know. They’ve always tried to keep any tension between the two of them secret from us, so I never know what’s the truth. I’ll Skype Mom shortly.”

“Morning.” They both turned to see Grace Bennett, the Palace’s wedding planner, smiling as she walked past in a powder-blue suit.

“Oh, Grace, this is Lane Griffiths. He’s come to advise on the changes to the restaurant. Lane, this is our incredible wedding planner, Grace. Here on a Sunday. We’re so lucky to have her. She works crazy hours.”