Murphy's Law

“Fine,” he lied, and sneezed again. And again. “Damn it, they said…never mind. You wouldn't happen to have any Benadryl, would you?”

“As a matter of fact…” She grinned and gestured him inside.

He took a step forward, then stopped. His gaze scanned the hallway floor, skimming the carpet that was littered with what now looked like a dozen white roses bought at a bargain basement florist. The stems of half were broken, the petals on most of the rest were crushed. Yet, as luck would have it…

Bending at the waist, Garrett plucked up the paper bag, and the only unmangled rose. The stem was long and thornless, the bulb a white velvet cup in the initial stage of blooming. Nature couldn't have supplied a more flawless specimen. Well, no, that wasn't true. Nature had supplied twelve—this was the lone survivor.

Garrett straightened, and held the rose out to Murphy.

She smiled, her eyes watery, and reached for it.

Their fingers brushed.

He felt a bolt of heat shoot up his arm…and wrap around his heart. Maybe Bree was wrong? Maybe the roses hadn't been such a goofy idea after all?

Hell, if one perfect rose brought tears to Murphy's eyes, he'd have to give serious thought to buying shares in a local florist! Her smile, Garrett realized, was something he wanted to see again. Often. A smile that he, and he alone, wanted to bring to her lips. A smile that he had missed…much, much more than he'd imagined he would.

“Thank you,” she said softly, wiping her eyes and again gesturing him inside.

Garrett peered nervously around her, searching for signs of Moonshine, but the cat was nowhere to be seen. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stepped over the threshold. His leg still hurt, but in the last week he'd noticed that, while he limped, the limp wasn't as noticeable as it had been. Nor was his healed wound as painful. It was mending nicely…thanks in no small part to Murphy McKenna.

The doorway was narrow; their shoulders brushed as he passed. The enticing scent of Ivory Soap tickled Garrett's senses. His stomach somersaulted.

Her living room was comfortable and airy. Only the necessary furniture was present. A wicker couch painted white, with plump seat cushions upholstered in an uncluttered, brown and yellow flower pattern and two matching pillows—long and round and narrow, shaped like a Tootsie Roll—flanking either side. There was a chair, also wicker and high-backed, wedged in the corner beside the phone stand. A small, glass-topped coffee table stretched out in front of the couch.

The centerpiece of the room was an entertainment center that took up half the adjacent wall. Ensconced behind the two smoke-glass doors was a nine inch television set and, on the shelves beneath that, an expensive, state-of-the-art stereo system. The bottom shelf was crammed with Compact Discs; if Garrett had to guess, he's say there was well over two hundred CDs.

There were five windows; three on the wall to his left, two on the opposite wall, flanking the entertainment center. None of them had curtains, but instead housed thin, wood-tinted blinds that, at the moment, were scrunched at the top of each casing to let in an abundant flood of golden sunlight.

Garrett watch Murphy set down the rose on the telephone table.

Frowning, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and set both it and the paper bag on the wicker chair. He hadn't given so many women flowers in the past that he had a lot of experience to draw on, but when he had, he'd found the first reaction a woman had was to smell them then put them in a vase of water to keep them fresh. Why hadn't Murphy done that?

A second later, the unspoken question was answered.

Murphy's sneeze was equal in violence to any of Garrett's previous ones.

“Oh, no,” she said, and half-sighed, half-laughed. Her gaze volleyed guiltily between the rose and Garrett. Her next sneeze seemed to clench the decision for her. She retraced her path back to the table and picked up the rose with her index finger and thumb, holding it out to him at arms length like it was a squirming insect. “I'm sorry, Garrett. Really, I am. But would you mind putting this back in"—aaachooo! sniffle, sniffle—"the hallway?”

She glanced away, and he noticed that her eyes were more than just watery, they were red and puffy. Those were signs he recognized easily, having suffered them his entire life.

“Don't tell me, let me guess. You're allergic to roses?” Garrett grinned. He couldn't help it.

The way he said it made the words more a statement than question. Murphy answered him anyway. “Not just roses, flowers in general. Forsythia is the worst. You should see me in the springtime!”

I'd like to, Garrett thought as, still grinning, he crossed to the door and opened it. An elderly woman was poised on the landing. Her shrewd hazel gaze was curiously taking in the mess of flowers scattered over the floor.

Without a second thought, Garrett stepped into the hallway, gathered up all twelve roses and put them in a semblance of order—flower arrangement wasn't a specialty—then pressed the bouquet into the woman's arms.

After a split second hesitation, the old lady took them, mumbling something under her breath that might have been a “thank you". It was difficult to tell since her tired, creaking voice was hushed with shock.

Chapter 10

Murphy's Law #10: The chance of the bread falling with the buttered side down is directly proportional to the cost of the carpet…

MURPHY STOOD inside the doorway, witness to the entire scene. The old woman was Mrs. Trumble, who'd no doubt descended from her fourth floor apartment, directly over Murphy's, with the intent of demanding Murphy turn down the volume on her stereo. The woman stared at Garrett, her age-wrinkled mouth agape.

Garrett's grin broadened, and he leaned forward, delivering a fleeting kiss to the woman's liver-spotted temple. Even at this distance, Murphy could see a blush heat Mrs. Trumble's cheeks.