Page 41 of The Rogue and His Flower

“Chucking me over your shoulder was a surprise. Ididn’tlike that,” she snaps.

“To be fair I wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t mentioned it yourself. Perhaps it was a Freudian slip on your part.”

“Are you actually suggesting I wanted you to throw me over your shoulder?”

“You tell me,” I reply, smothering a smile.

“I can categorically tell you I did not.”

“Noted,” I reply. “Won’t happen again, unless of course, you change your mind. I’ve been known to throw plenty of women over my shoulder in my time.”

“You wish,” she huffs.

Half an hour later we’re pulling up to a quaint, ivy-covered storefront on a quiet cobblestone street in a neighbouring village. The dressmaker’s boutique has a beautiful window display showcasing two stunning tailored gowns. One is a deep purple with crystal beading across the bodice, and the other is a pale green with layers of chiffon skirting and thin beaded straps.

“Why are we here?” Daisy asks, as we step out of the car.

“You’ll see,” I reply, pushing open the door, a tiny bell tinkling with our arrival.

Inside, the boutique is scented with lavender and rose, and gowns in every shade imaginable line the walls. The dressmaker, and owner of the boutique, is an elegant woman with silver hair tied up in a neat chignon.

“Are you Mr Gunn?”

“Yes, thank you for fitting us in at such short notice.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she replies, before turning her attention to Daisy. “And you must be Mrs Gunn.”

“Not yet,” Daisy replies softly, her attention drawn to the stunning array of gowns.

“Of course, how silly of me. You’ll have to forgive me, my mind is not as sharp as it used to be. This appointment is to find you a dress to wear for your engagement party tomorrow night, is that correct?”

“It is?” Daisy frowns, cutting a look my way.

“Whatever you want, it’s yours,” I offer, taking a seat on the armchair situated just outside the changing room.

“I’m sure there will be something suitable,” the dressmaker says, the lines around her eyes crinkling as she smiles. “What colour were you thinking?”

Daisy chews on her lip, flicking her gaze between me and the rack of dresses to her left as she trails her fingers along the material. “The theme is black and white,” she murmurs, staring wistfully at the colourful dresses.

“You’ll wear whatever dress you choose, regardless of the colour,” I say firmly.

Daisy’s head snaps around. “But your father was very specific.”

“I don’t care. This is our engagement party. You should wear what you want.”

“I’m not sure your father would appreciate his money being spent on a dress for me that doesn’t meet his expectations.”

“It isn’t his money buying the dress, it’s mine,” I explain, pulling out my credit card and passing it to the dressmaker. “Apologies, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Matilda,” the old woman replies.

“Well, Matilda, charge anything Daisy chooses to this card, please.”

"Of course,” Matilda replies, taking it from me, and heading towards the back of the shop where her cash register is located.

“Why, Dalton?” Daisy asks, uncertainty filling her voice. “I can pay for my own dress.”

I look at her, my gaze never wavering from her eyes. “In answer to your question, you told me that colour makes you happy. So choose a dress that will make you happy. And in response to your statement, I know you can pay for your own dress but it’s the least I can do given I seem to be doing a piss-poor job at making you happy.”

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