Page 5 of Undoing the Grumpy Guy

Which, honestly, is a good thing. If I knew the gorgeous man that I was crushing on was going to be my blind date, I’m not sure I would have found the courage to show up today.

As it is, once I saw him waiting on the bench, I had to take a hasty dive behind the bushes to give myself time to collect my thoughts. That and to message Mimi and ask her exactly who Reed, my date, was, because it still could be purely coincidental him showing up here and sitting on that bench.

But no. Reed is indeed MY date. I spent the next several minutes trying to fully absorb that and, well, taking the time to watch him. People watching is a favorite hobby of mine and he does make excellent eye candy.

I’m not quite sure how long I was planning to stall until I greeted him, but I’m rather relieved that he came over instead.

“Whatever were you doing in there?”

Chomping down on my lower lip, I gnaw at it as embarrassment burns in my cheeks. “I got a bit shy,” I admit, plucking some bits of twig and stray leaves off my dress while furtively peeking up at him.

Up close, he’s even more attractive if that’s possible. He’s easily a foot taller than me, placing him somewhere around six-two or three. He must have come from work to meet me here because he’s dressed in a dark suit, complete with tie. It makes me even more thankful that I finished this dress in time for today or I would have felt really underdressed.

His dark blue eyes move over me and the flush on my face burns even brighter at his slow perusal.

“Do you like it?” I blurt out.

Those eyes trail up over me and I feel the heated caress of them. My insides quiver as the need to get closer to him replaces my nervousness with something else. Something far hotter.

Long, dark eyelashes flutter down, blocking out his brilliant eyes, as he looks at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “What?”

“My dress. I see you staring at it.” I smooth my hands down the front, loving the different textures of the material I chose and the various shades of pink and purple. “I made it.”

Something flashes across his face and then he holds out his hand. “Yes, well, Winnie, I’m Reed.”

I smile, both at his formal tone and at the hand extended for a handshake. He’s so proper and handsome. A perfect prince.

A bit of my happiness deserts me. It’s a shame I’m not a princess, no matter how hard I want to pretend to be one.

But maybe for today I can pretend. That’s something I’m good at.

CHAPTER THREE

REED

I feel like a fool standing here with my hand out when she finally places hers in mine for the smallest of handshakes.

“And I’m Winnie, which you already know.”

Her smile grows even brighter, making me hyperaware of the strong smell of the holly bushes, the warm breeze that occasionally stirs her long curls, and even more so of the strength in the slender fingers grasping mine. Despite her small stature, Winnie isn’t weak.

Once again, I realize I’m staring and jerk my hand away. “Right. So, are we going to stand around the bushes all day, or are we going to walk around the gardens?”

Those enchanting gray eyes of hers widen as her smile slips slightly before coming back just as strongly. “Oh, walk. Definitely walk,” she says. “The bird of paradise flowers should be blooming, and we don’t want to miss them.”

We walk in the direction of whatever flower she wants to see, and our size difference becomes even more apparent as several times Winnie lags. Slowing down my stride isn’t something I’m used to. I’m a man who knows where he’s going and walks with a purpose, and those around me follow suit.

Not Winnie. She pauses and darts off the walkway to coo over this plant or exclaim over a certain vine that catches her fancy.

Not even bothering to hide my frown, I pause and glare at her, silently urging her to hurry.

The difference in our heights isn’t the only issue I have with my date. With her wild mane of curls that bounce and float around as if they have a life of their own and the homemade dress that looks like a stiff breeze would undo the haphazard stitches, I feel every one of my forty-two years and wonder if this is how a parent feels waiting for their sluggish child to stop dawdling and catch up.

“How old are you?” I bark out, pausing again while she snaps a picture of a bunch of flowers that look exactly like the other dozen or more than we’ve passed so far in our quest to find these birds of paradise flowers.

“Twenty-five.”

Older than I would have guessed, but still young. My frown deepens. “I’m forty-two.”

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