Starry-Eyed Love (Spark House)

He freezes for a moment. “For dinner?” he echoes.

Here goes nothing. “On a date.”

His expression shutters, and he’s silent for a moment. All the confidence I had a second ago drains out of me. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.” His phone pings, and he glances at the screen, a slight furrow in his brow. “I didn’t realize the time. I need to head out so I can make my flight on time.”

“Right. Of course.” I’m so mortified, I wish there was a pool of lava for me to jump into.

Everything is suddenly awkward as I help him pack up the lunch and walk him back to his car. I don’t know what to do with my hands, or what I should say, but apparently we’re ignoring the fact that I just embarrassed the hell out of myself by asking him out.

“One of my staff will be in touch next week with a preliminary guest list.” One hand is in his pocket, the other flipping his keys around his index finger.

I try not to sound like a prepubescent teen when I respond. “I’ll keep an eye out for that. And I’ll be in touch soon with preliminary figures for the event.”

“Perfect. I’m sure we’ll speak soon. Thank you for showing me around and letting me monopolize your afternoon.” He turns and gets into his car.

The windows are tinted so dark, I can only make out his shadow.

I wait until after the car disappears down the driveway before I let my shoulders sag. I can’t believe that just happened. How the heck am I going to avoid bursting into flames of mortification every time I talk to him after this?

8

IT’S JUST BUSINESS

LONDON

It’s five forty-five on the anniversary of my parents’ death, and I’ve already been awake for an hour. I don’t need to be up at all, since this is one of the rare days we take off without fail every single year. That, and our birthdays if they’re not on a weekend. If they are, we schedule a day midweek to celebrate.

I’m up this early because I have Etsy orders that have been piling up over the past week, and I need to tackle them before I get more behind than I already am. It doesn’t feel at all like work, though. I’m surrounded by pieces of paper. Pages out of books, to be precise. Not new ones, but the old ones that are so dog-eared, the library is getting rid of them, or ones that have been picked up from thrift stores. I start by dying the edges with watercolor paints, and then I turn them into flowers that become either decorative wall art or a wreath. They’re perfect gifts for book lovers and combine some of my favorite mediums to work with.

It takes me about half an hour to get into my groove, and then I can usually kick out a project every twenty minutes, allowing me to make quick work of all the backed-up orders. I need to thin out my selection in my store since I’m running low on stock for some items, and I just can’t see having the time to replenish my supply with it being the busy season at Spark House. Not that we have much of a slow season anymore.

By nine thirty I’ve managed to complete all but two orders, which just appeared in the past half hour. I package them all up and have them ready to be picked up by Verna, our postal lady, who’s here so often, we’re on a first-name basis.

“Whoa, what time did you get up this morning? Or should I be asking if you even went to bed?” Harley is standing in the middle of the living room in her rumpled jammies, sleep lines etched into the right side of her face. Her hair sticks out all over the place because she’s a middle-of-the-night thrasher.

“Around four thirty. I had some projects to take care of.”

“I would have helped you with those if I’d known. I didn’t realize you were behind on your Etsy stuff.”

“It was just from last week.”

“This is from last week? Wow. Things are really picking up in your store.” Harley arches an eyebrow at the pile of boxes at the front door.

“They’re just big boxes.”

“A lot of big boxes.”

“I got a little behind because we’re juggling a few extra things, and I’ve been spending more time on the charity event for Holt Media.” Every time I mention anything that has to do with Jackson and Holt Media, the embarrassment I felt that day returns in full force.

Harley gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry things are so awkward there. Are you sure you don’t want me to try to manage the calls and emails again?”

I told Harley and Avery what happened when I, in an effort to be bold, asked Jackson out. Since then, I’ve mostly been dealing with Mitchell, but whenever I add to or check on the Google Doc, I get all nervous and sweaty, worried he’s going to be in there at the same time as me. I tried to pull Harley in to take over communication, but Jackson refused to take the bait, so I’m stuck in this awkward position. And unlike him, I don’t have three months to get over the sting of rejection.