They lapsed into silence, Misty watching him expectantly. For his part, Denver was trying to remember what the hell he was doing here. Oh yeah.
“So, about this arbor,” he began.
“You really don’t have to do this. I can come up with something on my own. Cayla can be a steamroller, at times.”
A steamroller who’d given him the in he hadn’t managed to come up with on his own. “I’m in it now. Plus, she’ll owe me one. Why don’t you tell me what you were thinking?” He listened as she described what she had in mind. Spying a sketchpad on the counter, he nodded toward it. “You mind?”
Misty nudged it toward him.
In swift strokes, he sketched out what he imagined, based on her description, thinking he knew just where to get the wood. “Something like this, maybe.”
Misty took the pencil from him and began to add to the sketch, refining some details in the carving.
“Are those their initials?” he asked.
“Yeah. Intertwined in a sort of Celtic knot, symbolizing the whole unity of marriage. Can you do that?”
Angling his head, he studied it, seeing how it would work. “Sure.”
She continued, drawing out the flowers she’d add. Denver had to admit the overall effect was beautiful.
“Kennedy will love it,” Misty declared.
“Well, all right then.” Their business was officially concluded. But he was here, in her shop, actually talking to her, and he didn’t really want to stop. “We should probably check out the barn, talk measurements and stuff. I expect that would make a difference to how many flowers you’d need, how big I should make the thing.”
“You make a good point. I close at five-thirty most days, and I’m closed all day on Sunday and Monday.”
“How about Sunday afternoon? Say, four o’clock?”
“That works for me.”
Denver fought back the automatic, It’s a date. He didn’t quite manage to cap the grin as he told her, “I’ll pick you up.” Then he hightailed it out before he made an idiot of himself.
~*~
Wear pants.
Wear pants?
Misty stared down at the text from Denver. What the hell was that about? But she did as he’d asked, unearthing some well-loved jeans that seldom saw much use in the summer. And since she’d gone that far, she paired them with some hand-tooled leather cowboy boots that had seen many, many years’ love. The sleeveless, cream peasant blouse made her feel more appropriately summery. Why was she even worrying about what she wore? It’s not like this was a date. They were looking at a barn for heaven’s sake. It was a…business arrangement, really.
Except he hadn’t looked at her like he was thinking about business. She didn’t actually know what he’d been thinking, but those gunmetal gray eyes had seemed to look into her—beyond the polite and the surface she’d limited herself to. How could a look be both disconcerting and appealing?
And he’d told her to wear pants.
Misty finally understood why as she stepped outside her shop at four o’clock on Sunday and saw him cruising down Main Street on a motorcycle.
Oh my…
Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive” started up as a soundtrack in her head as he pulled up to the curb and shut off the engine. Despite the summer weather, he wore a dark brown leather jacket that hugged his bulk and accentuated that incredible shoulder to waist ratio. There were racing stripes down the sleeves, which seemed to fit with the lines of the motorcycle between his muscular thighs, currently clad in faded jeans. She couldn’t see his face for the helmet, but she knew it was Denver—it wasn’t the first time she had noticed the bike, or the biker. Behind the visor, she had the sense he was grinning at her.
Roll your tongue back in, girl.
When he tugged off the helmet, her tongue nearly fell back out of her mouth because, holy hell, Denver Hershal’s smile was lethal.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” she managed.