Misty started to protest because Cayla was totally railroading him, but those gray eyes flicked to her again.
“Fine. Dinner crowd’s coming in right now, but I can talk tomorrow. Swing by your shop?”
This big, burly, bull of a man in her pretty little shop? “Uh…okay.”
He nodded to himself like something had been decided and walked away, leaving Misty wondering what the hell just happened.
~*~
Some kind of bells chimed as Denver tugged open the door of Moonbeams and Sweet Dreams. He glanced up automatically, noting the assortment of wind chimes suspended from a grid attached to the high, tin ceiling—glass, copper, bamboo, wood, other metals. Something for everyone
. He shut the door and listened to the quiet tones of drums and flutes that floated out from speakers hidden around the room. Something dreamy and Celtic that suited the tone of the shop. The space was long and narrow, with wide-plank floors he suspected were original to the building. Displays made something of a maze of wares from the front to the back. It reminded him of the lone trip he’d taken to Ikea—herding you through the entire store before you got to the back and the register. Except this was clever, cozy, and warm, rather than a coldly calculated retail corral of gleaming fixtures filled with a herd of shoppers. Homey instead of Hell on Earth. It helped that there was nobody else here.
Denver wandered through, taking in the pottery, the textiles, the paintings, the carvings, noting the wide and varied selection. Tiny placards explained, in elegant, looping calligraphy, that all were locally sourced from artists and craftsmen of the region. Mixed in with the photographs, the sculptures, the glass, were fresh flowers and plants of all kinds—a seamless blending of the two halves of her business. He could see how somebody might see that vase and immediately want the cluster of whatever those purplish pink flowers were inside it. A girlie somebody anyway, which was her target demographic. As Denver was neither, he found the shortest route to the counter and called out, “Misty?”
Something thumped. He heard a muttered curse and a clatter and wondered what he’d interrupted. She appeared from the back. It was a different kind of flowers in her hair today—something cheerful and yellow, woven into the two small braids pulled back from her face. He caught himself starting to smile at that before he realized she had her hand held aloft, blood dripping down her arm.
He didn’t stop to think. He just vaulted the counter and snatched her hand. “What the hell happened?”
Misty tipped her head back to look up at him, stammering, “I cut myself on some thorns, while stripping some roses. It’s an occupational hazard.”
Her hand felt so tiny in his, but it wasn’t soft as he’d expected. She worked with her hands, and it showed in the tiny scars from previous nicks and cuts. He lifted his gaze from her hand to her face, catching those brown eyes that were dreamy more often than not. They weren’t dreamy now. They’d gone wide and very, very aware.
Denver realized he still held her hand and was all up in her personal space. “Sorry,” he muttered, releasing her and taking a step back.
“I…uh…I’m just gonna go wash this and get some antibiotic ointment.”
He had the distinct impression she was retreating as she headed back through the curtained doorway into what he presumed was a storeroom and work space. Feeling more than a little bit bull in a china shop, Denver shoved his hands into his pockets and stayed where he was. That’s when he noticed the old dog curled up on a bed in the corner. It was a little thing, a ball of black fur, with pointed ears that trembled as she snored quietly. A Pomeranian mix, maybe. Gray around the muzzle.
“Who’s your friend?” he called.
“That’s Moxie. She was a rescue.”
At the sound of her name, the dog cracked open an eye and peered up at him. Denver hunkered down and offered the back of his hand. Looking imperious, Moxie stretched forward just a bit and sniffed. Her little black nose twitched, then she rose and stretched, worming her way under his hand with a sharp little yap that clearly said, “Pet me, damn it!”
Misty came back out, her hand sporting a couple of fresh band-aids. “I got her when I moved to Eden’s Ridge because I was finally somewhere I could have a dog.”
Following orders, Denver stroked along her little spine, giving the old girl a good rubdown. “Didn’t want a puppy?”
“Oh, I love puppies. But seniors need homes too, and I thought it would be easier to keep an older dog with me all the time. Less rambunctious.”
It took a special kind of person to choose an older dog, the ones who were usually neglected and first up on the chopping block at overcrowded shelters. He admired the hell out of that.
“Seems like she makes up for that with sass,” he observed.
“Hence Moxie,” Misty agreed. “Do you have a dog?”
“Yep. Big old mutt. What my dad used to call a Heinz 57 dog. His name’s Oscar.”
“As in Meyer or The Grouch?”
Denver straightened. “The latter. Though it was because I found him in a dumpster as a pup, not because he’s grumpy.”
Misty’s face twisted with sympathy. “Poor baby.”
“He came out all right. And he’s sure as hell not a baby anymore. He’s a ninety-pound bed hog.”
Misty grinned at that and his brain emptied of everything but Wow. She had a helluva smile.