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Hating him for having an answer to everything, she took another generous sip of champagne. “Yes, I’m a florist.”
“I can see that.”
“Why?”
“You are creative.”
“You don’t know me.”
“You dress creatively.”
She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Rocco. I dress…comfortably.” She looked down at her outfit—flared jeans, a fitted green singlet top with an oversized blouse tied at the waist. She supposed the chunky resin necklace added a splash of colour that some might call creative, but she doubted anything about her fashion choices would appeal to a man like Rocco.
“It suits you.”
“Why are you still being nice to me? I told you, we’re not having sex.” She spoke a little loudly, a little forcibly, and a passing waitress glanced in their direction, so Maddie’s cheeks flushed bright pink.
“No, we’re not. At least, not right now.” He grinned, unconcerned, and her stomach popped with the force of a thousand fireworks. “We’re having a drink. But as for what comes next…” He let the provocative half-sentence hang in the air between them.
Maddie ground her teeth. “There is no next.”
“Okay.” He shrugged again. “Just a drink, then.”
She realized the trap too late. He’d made it sound as though she’d agreed to stay with him. To sit in the bar and sip champagne, just as she was doing. And she supposed she had—tacitly, at least—the moment she’d lifted the glass to her lips.
Her fingers ran over the stem, nerves zipping in her bloodstream. If she was being honest with herself, she’d admit that she didn’t want to leave. Not even a part of her was relishing the prospect of walking away from what he’d offered.
“Have you always wanted to work with flowers?”
She thought about providing him with another snarky, short reply, but when they were talking, she was distracted from thinking about not talking with Rocco. She was distracted from thinking about his body and hers, about the way it had felt to be kissed by him, not once but twice.
“It’s not just flowers,” she heard herself grudgingly admitting.
“Floristry?” His eyes scanned her face, so her stomach tightened. She sipped her champagne.
“I love gardens,” she continued, surprising herself with the elaboration. “I always have. As a girl, we moved around a lot; I couldn’t plant anything. I had this one pot—a citrus tree—and I carried it with me from house to house. But then we moved interstate and I had to get rid of it.” Her smile was practiced and hid a world of hurt. When she’d moved in with her grandparents, their garden had been the only thing to soften the blow of her mother’s desertion—or rather, the potential of their garden, and the free reign they’d been prepared to give her. “My grandfather’s garden is very beautiful; perhaps you’ve noticed.”
“I haven’t had the chance. But if that’s an invitation to come and view it…”
“It wasn’t.”
“It would be a shame to miss something so beautiful.”
“Before you tear it down, you mean?”
“Gardens can be saved. Relocated. So can many of the things within a house.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re talking about dismembering it—like removing someone’s organs and expecting them to still work the same way.”
“No, I’m talking about moving forward and understanding that nothing will affect your memories.”
“You don’t know anything about my memories.” Her eyes narrowed as anger took hold—an anger she was thrilled to feel, for how it took the impact away from the abundance of personal appeal Rocco Santoro had been blessed with. “And do you have any idea how complicated and expensive it is to uproot a garden? Some of those trees have been there longer than I’ve been alive. The hydrangea bushes are fifteen years old. They wouldn’t survive.”
“There are specialists.”
She made the universal sign of money. “Trust you not to think about something so simple as money.”
“Need I remind you, I am offering a small fortune for your grandfather’s house?”
