Hot to the Touch

Good.

Posters next. She ran to her supply closet, found a hammer and a rarely used assortment of nails she’d gotten five years ago from the hardware store when she bought the house, a pencil and a measuring tape. In fifteen minutes she’d hung all but one, maybe not perfectly aligned, but not terrible. Troy was due in five minutes. Maybe he’d help her hang the last one?

In her bedroom, she grimaced at the perfect order, scattered mail across the bare desk, then spilled out a couple of pens from her supply neatly stashed in a mug that said, “Before you tell a man you love his company, make sure he owns one.”

Wait. Again into the kitchen, she got a glass from the cabinet, filled it with an inch of water, raced back and put it on her desk. Better. Could she stand leaving socks on the floor?

No. Darcy had to draw the line somewhere.

At her bedroom door, she surveyed the intentional damage to the house. Much better. The posters added perfect color; her red slippers made a casual statement in the living room. The plates of food on the kitchen counter, and the few dishes in the sink added even more.

Ace would be proud. Now her house looked “human,” too. He’d given her another look of astonishment that evening when Raoul had come swaggering back into the kitchen to say hello, and Darcy had managed to fight down bile and be fairly gracious. Or at least she hadn’t slugged him when he managed a few veiled insults to their location and chances of making a big success, and bragged that his restaurant would be called Raoul’s Place.

Ew.

So let him talk. He’d still have to prove himself in the kitchen. She’d even managed to feel the tiniest bit sorry for Alice, who’d apparently been replaced in Raoul’s affections, and now had to serve him as a guest with the entire Gladiolas staff watching and whispering, remembering the scene in linen storage.

One minute until Troy was due. Darcy unlocked her front door, stood carefully on the chair with the last poster, depicting a wide range of colorful chili peppers, and measured the inches to where the top of the poster would hang, then eyeballed the spacing and hammered in the nail.

The buzz of her doorbell nearly knocked her off the chair. Butterflies were alive and well and living in her stomach; her heart pounded madly. Would she ever feel blasé about this man?

“Come in,” she said in a who-can-it-be casual voice she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of.

The door opened; Troy’s dark head peered around its edge. He caught her eye and broke into the grin she was already wearing.

The man made her absurdly happy.

“Redecorating?” He came in, closing the door behind him.

“More like decorating.” She hung the last print, studying it as if she were tremendously concerned with its placement, when she was actually overcome with a need to fling herself into Troy’s arms and kiss him until he pleaded for mercy. “Martha Stewart I’m not.”

“Place looks nice. You look nicer. I brought you something.”

She turned and gasped with pleasure. He was holding an armful of flowers. Gladiolas, in varying shades of orange, yellow, red and white. “Oh, Troy, how gorgeous. How perfect.”

“Tell me where the vases are?”

“I’ll get one.” She got down and dragged her stool back over to the refrigerator, touched and a little shaky.

“I never asked why you named your restaurant Gladiolas.”

Darcy brought down a large wide-mouthed vase that would be perfect for the huge bouquet. “My grandfather used to grow them. He did the flowers for Mom and Dad’s wedding, including a bridal bouquet of white glads. Every year my father gave my mother the flower for their anniversary.”

“Romantic.”

“Well…” Darcy grimaced, filling up the vase with water. “I’m sure it started out that way. By the time we were aware of the custom it was probably just grudging duty.”

Troy handed her the blooms. “So I assume you know what the flower symbolizes.”

“Strength, integrity and generosity.”

“There’s one more.”

“Yes?” She waited expectantly.

“I told you Mom was a decorator. She also knew her flowers. Glads were one of her favorites.” He came up behind her; his hands settled on her waist and she decided she didn’t care what the last mystery characteristic of glads was because she’d just caught fire with longing.