Page 43 of The Perfect Putt

“You’re still wearing my sweatshirt,” he points out. My face flames. I might have put it back on after my shower because it smelled like him and I wanted to feel like I was still in his arms. But that would sound weird and probably get me fired for being one of those stalker assistants.

“It’s laundry day and I can’t carry the basket,” I say lamely. He smirks as if he knows how this is affecting me.

“Makes sense.”

He leans forward and reaches a long arm to grab one of the croissants. He hands me the cheese danish. Either he’s a mind reader or my face gives away more than I thought, because that’s the one I wanted the most.

“Thanks,” I say as I tear off a piece. “I’ll wash the sweatshirt and give it back to you once I’m back to normal.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I can’t keep it,” I say and he looks at me, eyes greener than the sweatshirt I have on meet mine.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s yours. And probably expensive.”

“You think everything I own is expensive.”

“Because it is.”

He shoots me an exasperated look. “Red, keep the sweatshirt. I have plenty of them, and it looks better on you than it does on me.”

I look down and pretend to pick at my danish in order to hide my smile. “Okay, I’ll keep it.”

“Good.”

Silence falls over us. The only sound is the ice clinking in my coffee. The same coffee that his lips touched a few minutes ago. I’m not sure what to say or do right now. Our relationship has been changing so fast that my mind–and heart for that matter–can’t keep up. I keep trying to remind myself that Miles doesn’t want a relationship with me, but then the reckless romantic in me whispers then why is he here? Why is he carrying you to bed and buying you coffee?

I can’t answer those questions. I can only jump to conclusions. And I’ve been jumping the way kids jump waves at the beach. If being delusional was a sport, I’d be smiling on the podium with my gold medal.

“So, you like flowers,” Miles breaks the silence.

My heart pumps faster in my chest. A part of my dream is on display here and I can’t deny that it would hurt if he didn’t like it. I haven’t met anyone who despises flowers, but I’ve met a few who think my dream of owning a flower shop is childish. Though as much as I’ve trashed golf, it wouldn’t be fair of me to get discouraged about him not understanding my ambitions.

“I love them,” I say quietly. I train my eyes on the arrangement on my coffee table. “Since you’ve done so much for me lately, I suppose I can give away one of my secrets.”

He shifts so his body is angled toward me. I feel the weight of his gaze even though I can only see him in my peripheral vision.

“My dream is to open up a flower shop on Wave Way. A place where people can come in and get bouquets for their loved ones or just as a memento of their stay here. I’d grow a lot of the flowers and make all the arrangements myself.”

“That’s what you’re saving for,” he says, drawing my attention back to him. He’s studying me. “You started working for me to save for that?”

I nod. “It might seem silly–”

He cuts me off. “It’s not at all. I think it’s a great idea. Coastal Cove could use a place like that. And you’re obviously great at it.” He gestures around the room. Warmth swells in my chest. I feel like I’ve had one too many sangrias at Hank’s. I can’t help but smile.

“You really think so?”

He returns my smile. “Of course. You’ll probably have to hire someone to work the counter though. Your people skills are severely lacking.”

I gape and throw my balled-up tinfoil at him. He catches it and throws it in the paper bag with ease. Unfair.

“Seriously though, Red, you would be an amazing florist and business owner. You’re organized and creative. I’ll be sad to lose you as my assistant when the day comes, but I know you’ll be successful.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

I take a bite of my Danish with a smile on my face. I don’t know why, but hearing Miles say he believes I could be successful makes me feel like I’m floating on a cloud of happiness. I sneak a glance at him. He’s eating a butter croissant, looking perfectly at home here on my couch. It’s a sight I wouldn’t mind getting used to.

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