Practice Makes Perfect: A Novel

Heaven will undeniably be made up of flowers.

There’s nothing in the world that boosts my mood like standing in my flower shop and taking in a deep breath of flowers. The morning sunshine spills through the large, shop-front windows and kisses the rainbow of blooms bursting from every corner of my little shop.

I wish my mom could see it. She adored flowers—and was even the one who started the flower crop on our local farm where I buy my wholesale flowers. She’s the reason my shop is named Charlotte’s Flowers. And as strange as it sounds, I tried to match the space to my mom’s smile. Bright, open, welcoming, hopeful. I barely got the chance to know her, and yet I ache for her often. To know what she’d think of the wooden buckets filled with long-stemmed flowers lining the perimeter of the shop. Would she like the light wide-plank flooring? I think she would love the giant old farm table in the back center of the room I found for a steal at a flea market.

What would Mom say about the void I can’t seem to get rid of? Somehow I feel like I’ve betrayed her by opening her dream flower shop and realizing it’s not enough for me. It’s got to be that my heart is ready for love and marriage and a family, and when I get all of those things, I’ll be content. I mean, one look at a picture of my parents would tell you that they had everything they needed in each other. They exuded joy and peace. I want that.

Currently I should be finishing the bouquet James called in earlier that he’ll be picking up soon; instead, I’m busy with Very Important Work. (Sneaking in a chapter of the latest pirate romance I can’t put down.)

Coraline’s breasts were heaving above the tight bodice of her gown in a manner that drove Allistair mad with desire. Unable to keep himself away any longer, he snaked his arm around Coraline’s waist and pulled her tightly to him. “Coraline,” he whispered, his mouth only a breath above her own. “Please. I beg you. Allow me to—”

The bell above my shop door chimes, and I barely manage to not audibly groan from how annoyed I am at being interrupted right as Allistair was begging Coraline to let him…what? Kiss her? Make love to her? I need to know!

I look up, gasp, and throw my book over my shoulder, somewhere into the abyss of my storage room.

There is a man standing in my shop with a roguish smile and a sleeve of tattoos.

“Hi,” says Will Griffin looking far too amused. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No.” I answer too quickly.

He smiles curiously. “But you did just throw a book behind you, right?”

“No.” Again, too quick. I swallow and tell my skin to stop boiling. “But if I did—hypothetically speaking—it would be because I don’t want you to know what book I’m reading. So please don’t ask any more questions.”

His smile widens as he advances into the shop to stand right in front of my worktable. “I see. The illusive if-I-tell-you-I’ll-have-to-kill-you book. But you should know, it’s torture in and of itself not knowing what book it is.”

Gosh. Speaking of torture. It’s nearly unbearable to look right into Will’s eyes. It’s like staring at the sun. Too powerful for mere mortals.

I purposely change the subject. “What can I help you with, Will? Are you here for flowers or are you on bodyguard duty?”

“Executive protection agent.”

I frown and he sees my confusion.

“We prefer to be called executive protection agents. But currently I think I fall more under the title of errand boy.” He extends a small envelope across the table to me, and my brain momentarily blanks when my gaze connects with the black ink of his butterfly tattoo so close to me. Something about it feels illegal. Like it’s so sexy that this man’s hand should be on a list of Most Dangerous Males hidden in a top secret filing cabinet of the FBI.

“I have no idea what’s in it,” he admits when I finally take the letter from him—careful to make sure our hands don’t brush in the process because I have no desire to spontaneously combust right here in my flower shop. “Amelia just asked me to bring it to you and for you to open it while I’m here.”

“Seems kind of odd,” I say, and Will just shrugs his shoulders—white T-shirt straining against his muscles as he does.

His eyes wander from me to the buckets of flowers against the wall before he tucks his hands easily into the front pockets of his jeans, turning away to explore the shop. I realize this is the first time he’s ever been in here. When he was in town last, he always hovered outside whichever establishment Amelia was in, only entering if there was a large crowd. But this is Rome, and there is never more than one or two people in an establishment at a time.

Even though I’m curious why Amelia would send me a letter via her bodyguard, it takes me a minute to peel my eyes away from Will and the way he’s taking in every detail of my shop. He touches petals and stems. He looks up, exposing the long column of his throat to look at the thick crown molding around the top perimeter of the shop. Taps his foot against the wide plank floors. I could watch him do this all day.

Instead of being creepy, however, I force myself to crack open the seal of the envelope and read Amelia’s handwriting. After quickly scanning her words, I promptly fold the letter and consider putting it in my mouth and swallowing so it’s never seen again.

“What’s it say?” Will asks, having turned around and, apparently, watched me read it.

“Nothing.” My voice is suspiciously prim. I walk to the shop door and fling it open. “Well, I’m sure you’ve got lots of things to do today. Don’t let me keep you. Thanks for bringing this by!”

“I don’t think so.” He takes hold of its handle and slowly closes the door. He turns his eyes to me. “What was in that letter?”

I give him a nonchalant smile. “Oh, you know, nothing important. Girl stuff.”

He steps closer, and I take one instinctive step away. Not because I feel threatened, but because I feel…the opposite of threatened.

“I know that letter had something to do with me.”

I talk out of the side of my mouth like a ventriloquist. “Someone’s a bit of a narcissist.”

“Annie. Show me the letter.” Will’s tone is calculatingly easy and his smile is dripping with seduction. He’s baiting me.

I don’t know what comes over me, but before I can stop myself, the words, “You can’t make me,” fly out of my mouth.

His smile melts into something roguish and challenging. “Wanna bet?” He steps closer, and an excitement I’ve never known twirls through my veins.

There is absolutely no way I’m letting Will Griffin get ahold of this letter. What was Amelia thinking? It’s embarrassing! It’s a terrible idea! Which makes the letter Terribly Embarrassing.

Will steps closer—slowly—and with every step he takes, my skin sizzles happily. Which is confusing because this is not the time to think of happy sizzles.

I pinch the letter fiercely between my fingers using every muscle my poor little under-toned fingers will provide, and then tuck it behind my back. “This letter isn’t for you, sir.”

“But it’s about me, right?”

“No.” I hold my chin higher.

He grins. “You’re lying.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because I’ve watched you. I know your tell.”

The floor swoops under my feet. “You’ve…watched me?”

He doesn’t look embarrassed or like he’s just admitted something creepy. He states it like a fact. “It’s my job to watch and listen to everyone Amelia interacts with. And that includes you. Which is how I know that when you’re not telling the whole truth, you always lift your chin slightly. Like you have to muster up the courage to tell a lie. It’s cute.”

Ugh, I wish he wouldn’t say “cute.” It’s disorienting. Compliments from him make me dizzy. Ah, but that’s his motive, isn’t it?! He’s like the snake in The Jungle Book, growing closer with swirly hypnotizing eyes.

“We both know I’m going to get that letter, Annie, so how about you hand it over and save us both some time.” His voice is so charming and playful that I could melt. And with him this close, I can smell him. A mix of body wash and deodorant—but not cologne. A subtle masculine and clean scent that’s so good it hurts.

“You’ll have to try to steal it from me if you want it. Because there’s no way I’m giving you this letter.”

He chuckles soft and low—like I’m adorable for even considering going against him. “I’m not trying to steal anything. I am succeeding in stealing it. Your first mistake was ever letting me get this close.”

“Oh? Then how is the letter still in my hand?”

“It’s not. You dropped it a minute ago.”

I gasp and break eye contact to verify that the paper is in fact still pinched between my fingers, and when I do, Will uses my momentary disorientation to lurch forward fast as lightning and slip the paper from my grasp.

“And that’s how you lie without a tell, Annie Walker,” he says with a gleeful smile. “Now let’s see what Amelia wrote about me in here, shall we?”

He barely gets his last word out before I launch myself at him, intent on ripping that paper from his hand, and then tearing it into a million little unreadable slivers. But I forget that I’m five foot three, and he’s at least six feet or more and easily holds the letter above his head to begin reading as I jump like a child trying to pluck an apple from a tree.

He clears his throat dramatically. “Dear Annie! Remember when I said I had a solution to your dating problems?”

“Give me that letter!”

“Well, I’ve brought him right to your door. I’m convinced Will is exactly who you need too—”

“William!” I yell loudly, my own voice scraping against my nerves as I continue to hop and tug and circle him for that letter. “You can’t read this! It’s embarrassing.”

This time he lowers the letter in front of my face like bait. It dangles lightly between his finger and thumb. I purse my lips together knowing full well he’s going to pull it away the second I go for it, but I still do it anyway. And yep, he immediately yanks it to the right—out of my reach. We’re chest to chest now. My face is tilted up and his is tilted down. I could kiss him right now if I wanted to.

Where in the world did that thought come from?

“What makes you think my name is William?” he says quietly, like we’re lying together in bed rather than duking it out in a flower shop.

“Fine. Please give me the letter, Wilson,” I whisper in return.

He grins. “Definitely not after realizing I’m the solution to your dating problems. I’m so intrigued I could never give it back now.”

I growl and lunge for the paper. He rainbows it up over his head and to the other side.

“Wilbert, please give it to me right now or I’ll be forced to…say rude things to you.”

“So polite to warn me,” he says in an impressed tone of voice. Like he’s seconds away from laughing. “I think I’d like to hear the rude things.”

This time I grab his bicep and haul it down. Given that he’s twice my size and I haven’t exercised anything more than my wit in years, I know he’s letting me do it. But I use his pity to my advantage and twist his arm over my shoulder, whirling so my back is to him and I can grab the paper from his hand dangling in front of me. I experience momentary triumph where I’m sure I’m the world’s newest Strong Woman until Will wraps his other arm around me and holds me in a backward hug. His hands cover mine, so now we’re both holding the paper. I feel his breath against my ear. “What’s your rude comment, Annie?”

A shiver ripples through me. I’ve never felt so alive.

“It’s going to be awful,” I taunt—struggling to breathe normally with the feel of his strong yet gentle arms encircling me and the butterflies whirling around in my stomach. “Super mean.”

“I’m braced. Let me have it.”

I swallow and turn my chin so I’m looking at his eyes—so close I could use a ruler and measure that black rim around his blue-gray irises with precision. “You’re acting…like a…stingy…butt munch!”

He gasps. “Butt munch? You’ve cut right through my heart. I don’t even know what that is but I’m devastated.”

I’m laughing so hard now that I can barely stay upright. My knees are buckling, and Will is using his arms to hold me up as he laughs too.

“Fine,” I say stumbling out of his hold to wave him off. “I give up. You’re clearly not going away so just read it and get it over with.”

He catches his breath, watching me with only the suggestion of a grin as he unfolds the paper. “You know, I thought you were supposed to be shy.”

I shrug. “I am with most people.” But, oddly, not you, is what I leave unspoken.

Will reads the letter, and I watch him closely as his eyes scan the words. Because I read it first, I know that Amelia (a woman who has lost her marbles) suggests I ask Will to be my dating coach. She thinks we should go on practice dates, and he can help me navigate my First Date Anxiety. She helpfully points out that Will has not had any shortage of dates over the few years she’s known him, and he’s considered a pro at it. She adds that despite the tattoos and menacing persona, he’s a fantastic guy and would absolutely say yes. To this, I mentally laugh because I don’t find Will menacing at all. Enticing, yes. Would look incredible on the cover of a historical romance? Absolutely. Afraid of him? Nope. Not a bit.

Amelia ends the letter by telling me to be brave and then asks me what Audrey would do. A cheap trick, Amelia Rose.

It’s not bravery I’m lacking—the issue is the loud alarm ringing in my ear, warning me that this is a bad idea. I can’t ask Will to practice date me because, well, just look at him! I clearly have a major crush, and judging by how my body reacts when he’s around, this suggestion has disaster written all over it. I’ll get feelings all tangled up and then be confused about what my goal really is. I’m a self-aware gal, and I know my flaws. Falling quickly for hunky mysterious men who look like pirates and don’t do relationships is definitely one of them.

But I also can’t fall for Will because he’s not the kind of man I want to marry. I need dependable, sweet, and cozy. Someone to match my vibes. Someone to be a great dad to our future children and help with math homework and play catch in the yard. In comparison, Will is dangerous, and sexy, and exciting. The only thing he’ll catch is my heart before he tosses it onto the ground and stomps it into a million tiny little pieces before sailing off into the sunset.

He’s taking forever to read this letter. I dissect his expressions hoping for a clue to what’s going on in his head. He gives me barely anything because he has a very good poker face, which I assume was learned from years of body guarding. His jaw flexes and mine does too. His eyebrow twitches and I twitch mine. And then abruptly his eyes cut to me, and he grins because he was watching me from the corner of his eye the whole time.

Well.

He turns away from me to finish the letter, and I roll my eyes.

The bell above my shop door chimes, and my attention is forced away from scrutinizing Will’s every move to see my favorite and most challenging customer stroll in. “Buckle up, Buttercup! I’ve got an order for you that’s either going to make you cry tears of joy or distress. We’ll see.”

Ms. Mabel, my grandma’s best friend of more than fifty years and also the woman who helped raise me and my siblings, steps through the door—floral print dress clinging to her voluptuous form and swaying lightly at the hem. She’s breathing heavily, like she power walked here, and has her leather purse clutched to her ample breast.

“Good morning, Mabel! What sort of order—”

I’m cut off when suddenly the shop door flies open like a saloon door. I half expect Mabel to whirl around and draw a six-shooter from a garter under her skirt.

“I need fifteen flower arrangements in colors of pink and white by tomorrow night!”

“Damn you, Harriet! I got here first,” Mabel huffs.

“Don’t curse at me. It’s not my fault you dawdled.” These two have been bickering since I was born. Not sure what started it, but I’m confident it will continue until they’re both in their graves. Maybe even past the grave. Mabel will haunt Harriet’s burial site, drawing inappropriate pictures on her gravestone, and Harriet will retaliate by bringing in a heavenly choir to sing at the top of their lungs around Mabel’s resting place.

Mabel puts her hands on her hips and scowls. “I’m in charge of flowers for the ladies’ tea. And I want purple flowers.”

Harriet, with her chest heaving under her very appropriate gray A-line dress that perfectly matches her gray tightly coiled hair, fully enters the shop. “Standing up from the table in the middle of our planning session and running for the flower shop the second Deloris mentioned needing arrangements doesn’t make you in charge of flowers.”

“Now, ladies,” I say in a soft tone. “There’s no need to argue. Mabel, put down that rose. Respectfully, if you smack Harriet with it, you’re going to have to buy it.” Mabel harrumphs and resheaths the rose into its rightful bucket. “How about I put your names in a hat to decide who’s in charge? Or better yet, we can do half the arrangements pink and white and half purple and white.”

“Or,” Mabel says as she inches toward the door, her leather support loafers squelching lightly with each step. She puts her hand on the door handle and continues, “We can put it to a vote at the planning committee. I’ll go tell them! Nice to see you back in town, William!” She flings open the door and makes a mad dash through it, heel-toeing it past the shop window and down the sidewalk.

“That dirty cheat! She’s going to promise Deloris the use of her dining room for bunco night if she votes for her before I get there.” And out she races in a dash of bland grayness.

With a smile on my face, I turn back to the store, nearly jumping out of my skin when I see Will staring at me.

He levels me with a look so potent I think I’ll fall flat on my back.

“My answer is no. I can’t be your dating coach.”