She added, subtracted plants in her mind, calculated the cost of pots, stock, soil. And smiled to herself
as she hung another basket.
"Shouldn't you be doing paperwork?"
She nearly tipped off the stool, might have if a hand hadn't slapped onto her butt to keep her upright.
"It's not all I do." She started to get down, but realized being on the stool kept her at eye level with him. "You can move your hand now, Logan."
"It doesn't mind being there." But he let it fall, slipped it into his pocket. "Nice baskets."
"In the market?"
"Might be. You had a look on your face when I came in."
"I usually do. That's why it's called a face."
"No, the kind of look a woman gets when she's thinking about how to make some guy drool."
"Did I? Mind?" she added, gesturing to a basket. "You're off the mark. I was thinking how I was going
to turn two over-stock pots on the discount rack into stupendous displays and considerable profit."
Even as she hung the basket, he was lifting another, and by merely raising his arm, set it in place. "Showoff."
"Shorty."
Hayley came through the doorway, turned briskly on her heel and headed out.
"Hayley."
"Forgot something," she called out and kept going.
Stella blew out a breath and would've asked for another basket, but he'd already picked one up, hung it. "You've been busy," she said.
"Cool, dry weather the last week."
"If you're here to pick up the shrubs for the Pitt job, I can get the paperwork."
"My crew's out loading them. I want to see you again."
"Well. You are."
He kept his eyes on hers. "You're not dim."
"No, I'm not. I'm not sure—"
"Neither am I," he interrupted. "Doesn't seem to stop me from wanting to see you again. It's irritating, thinking about you."
"Thanks. That really makes me want to sigh and fall into your arms."
"I don't want you to fall into them. If I did, I'd just kick your feet out from under you."
She laid a hand on her heart, fluttered her lashes, and did her best woman of the south accent.
"My goodness, all this soppy romance is too much for me."
Now he grinned. "I like you, Red. Some of the time. I'll pick you up at seven."
"What? Tonight?" Reluctant amusement turned to outright panic in a fmgersnap. "I can't possibly just
go out, spur of the moment. I have two kids."
"And three adults in the house. Any reason you can think of why any or all of them can't handle your boys for a few hours tonight?"
"No. But I haven't asked, a concept you appear to be unfamiliar with. And—" She shoved irritably at
her hair. "I might have plans."
"Do you?"
She angled her head, looked down her nose. "I always have plans."
"I bet. So flex them. You take the boys for ribs yet?"
"Yes, last week after—"
"Good."
"Do you know how often you interrupt me in the middle of a sentence?"
"No, but I'll start counting. Hey, Roz."
"Logan. Stella, these look great." She stopped in the center of the aisle, scanning, nodding as she
absently slapped her dirty gloves against her already dirt-smeared jeans. "I wasn't sure displaying so
many would work, but it does. Something about the abundance of bloom."
She took off her ball cap, stuffed it in the back pocket of her work pants, stuffed the gloves in the other. "Am I interrupting?"
"No."
"Yes," Logan corrected. "But it's okay. You up to watching Stella's boys tonight?"
"I haven't said—"
"Absolutely. It'll be fun. You two going out?"
"A little dinner. I'll leave the invoice on your desk," he said to Stella. "See you at seven."
Tired of standing, Stella sat on the stool and scowled at Roz when Logan sauntered out. "You didn't help."
"I think I did." Reaching up, she turned one of the baskets to check the symmetry of the plants. "You'll go out, have a good time. Your boys'll be fine, and I'll enjoy spending some time with them. If you
didn't want to go out with Logan, you wouldn't go. You know how to say no loud enough."
"That may be true, but I might've liked a little more notice. A little more ... something."
"He is what he is." She patted Stella's knee. "And the good thing about that is you don't have to wonder what he's hiding, or what kind of show he's putting on. He's ... I can't say he's a nice man, because he can be incredibly difficult. But he's an honest one. Take it from me, there's a lot to be said for that."
ELEVEN
This, Stella thought, was why dating was very rarely worth it. In her underwear, she stood in front of
her closet, debating, considering, despairing over what to wear.
She didn't even know where she was going. She hated not knowing where she was going. How was
she supposed to know what to prepare for?
"Dinner" was not enough information. Was it little-black-dress dinner, or dressy-casual on-sale-designer-suit dinner? Was it jeans and a shirt and jacket dinner, or jeans and a silk blouse dinner?
Added to that, by picking her up at seven, he'd barely left her enough time to change, much less decide what to change into.
Dating. How could something that had been so desired, so exciting and so damn much fun in her teens, so easy and natural in her early twenties, have become such a complicated, often irritating chore in her thirties?
It wasn't just that marriage had spoiled her, or rusted her dating tools. Adult dating was complex and exhausting because the people involved in the stupid date had almost certainly been through at least one serious relationship, and breakup, and carried that extra baggage on their backs. They were already set
in their ways, had defined their expectations, and had performed this societal dating ritual so often that they really just wanted to cut to the chase—or go home and watch Letterman.
Add to that a man who dropped the date on your head out of the clear blue, then didn't have the sense
to give you some guidelines so you knew how to present yourself, and it was just a complete mess
before it started.
Fine, then. Fine. He'd just get what he got.
She was stepping into the little black dress when the connecting bathroom door burst open and Gavin rushed in. "Mom! I finished my homework. Luke didn't, but I did. Can I go down now? Can I?"
She was glad she'd decided on the open-toed slides and no hose, as Parker was currently trying to
climb up her leg. "Did you forget something?" she asked Gavin.
"Nuh-uh. I did all the vocabulary words."
"The knocking something?"
"Oh." He smiled, big and innocent. "You look pretty."
"Smooth talker." She bent down to kiss the top of his head. "But when a door's closed, you knock."
"Okay. Can I go down now?"
"In a minute." She walked over to her dresser to put on the silver hoops she'd laid out. "I want you to promise you'll be good for Miss Roz."
"We're going to have cheeseburgers and play video games. She says she can take us in Smackdown,
but I don't think so."
"No fighting with your brother." Hope springs, she thought. "Consider this your night off from your mission in life."
"Can I go-down?"
"Get." She gave him a light slap on the rump. "Remember, I'll have my phone if you need me."
When he rushed out, she slipped on her shoes and a thin black sweater. After a check in the mirror,
she decided the accessories took the dress into the could-be-casual, could-be-more area she'd been shooting for.
She picked up her bag and, checking the contents as she went, walked into the next bedroom. Luke
was sprawled belly-down on the floor—his favored position—frowning miserably over his arithmetic book.
"Trouble, handsome?"
He lifted his head, and his face was aggrieved in the way only a young boy could manage. "I hate homework."
"Me too."
"Gavin did the touchdown dance, with his fingers in the air, 'cause he finished first."
Understanding the demoralization, she sat on the floor beside him. "Let's see what you've got."