Page 22 of The Pucking Proposal

What I really want to say is,Do you know what a shitstorm you stirred up for me by sending a bouquet to my work? What were you thinking?

But I don’t, because I don’t want to sound like a bitch, even though the flower delivery definitely got tongues wagging. People were coming by my cubicle for all sorts of nonsense for an opportunity to peek at the flowers and see if I’d spill who sent them.

“I thought you’d like them,” he replies with a confident smile. “No roses, like you said.”

I swear to god, if he could pat himself on the back any harder, he would. As it is, he’s nearly verbally popping his shoulder out of socket to congratulate himself on a job well done.

How is he so completely oblivious? He’s smart and has surely sent flowers to a woman before, so how does he not realize?

Maybe I bear the teeniest bit of responsibility for not clarifying that I meant to my apartment when I told him to send flowers? And honestly, it was a joke. I didn’t think he’d really send them anyway. But I figured if he listened and actually did it, he’d know better than to send them to the station. Apparently not, which means I have to be the one to educate him.

“Do you know what happens when someone gets flowers at work?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

His dark brows furrow in confusion and he shrugs. “I dunno. You set them on your desk?”

I nod as if I’m thinking deeply about his superficial answer. “Let’s try this ... you and the team walk out of the arena together, high-fiving and congratulating each other on a win, and see Max’s car has stuff written on the windows likegreat game,best winger everwith an arrow pointing at the driver, andMoose 4ever. What would you say to him?”

“Stage five clinger alert,” he jokes, grinning at the thought. “We’d definitely ask who the new pussy is and warn him about condom sabotage because a girl like that’s a baby-trapper.”

“Riiight,” I drawl out, prompting him to put two and two together.

It takes a second, a solid breath in and out while he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my marbles, and then he sits upright. “Oh fuck! I didn’t even think—” He frowns hard, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Did people at the station—”

I interrupt to fill in, “Ask who my new boyfriend is? Yeah. They did. And when I said ‘not a boyfriend,’ they got carried away with all sorts oftheories. Before long, I was fielding conspiracies about secret admirers, stalkers, and obsessed fans.”

He rumbles, his jaw clenching. “Straight from the tea to the drama, huh?”

I arch a sharp brow. “Girls have to stick together, and stick up for what’s right. If one of us got flowers from some unknown guy, we’d be doing FBI-level investigative work, walking each other to our cars, and texting a code word of the day to check in once we got home. We follow the safety in numbers guideline, so I was trying to hold off initiation of Operation: Protect Joy.”

That perks his ears right up and he goes deadly serious. “Do you really do all that?”

“Yeah, that’s what good friends do. Being in the public eye isn’t always the safest job, so we’re careful. Everyone in any sort of broadcast journalism knows that people get attached to you. We come into their homes every day, like clockwork, which creates a sense of connection as we share the news, weather, or sports. They think we’re friends ... or more. It’s even riskier as a woman.”

He looks angry. Actually, scratch that. Though he’s probably aiming for chill and calm, he looks downright monstrous as he grits out, “Have you had issues with anyone?”

“Nothing that serious, thankfully. And before you go all ‘give me his name,’ you have the same thing with fans. They think they know you because they watch you play, and maybe you gave them a high five or a handshake at the supermarket,” I remind him. “Not to mention all the girls in the stands wearing your jersey number, waiting in line to drape themselves over you for a picture and slip you their numbers, and rating you for Kiss/Marry/Kill on Instagram.”

“Jealous?” he taunts with a wicked smirk. Then he answers more seriously, “It’s different for me. I don’t walk around feeling unsafe. Other than the girls, the most I get is a keyboard warrior who thinks he can play better than me even though the only thing he’s guarded isthe front door with a dead bolt, and I have to hold myself back from typing out a ‘fuck you’ response under my real name.”

I nod, glad he understands. “I don’t live my life in fear, either, because I’m careful and on alert one hundred percent of the time, like my coworkers, which is why they were worried about me. I finally had to lie and say Hope sent the flowers as a thank-you for being such a great sister, which then sent everyone back to tea-territory, asking what’s up with her.”

He seems grateful for the opportunity to redirect the conversation and quickly adds, “People ask Shep that too. He usually tells them she’s working in California, keeping people’s veneers camera-ready in blinding LED white.”

I laugh. “I haven’t heard that one, but I’ll start using it, too, so it seems extra believable.”

The truth is, Hope floats wherever her husband, Ben, and his band go. If that’s at their home in LA, fine. If that’s a tour of Europe that hits fourteen cities in fifteen days, that’s okay too. She’s the band’s biggest cheerleader, often referee, and occasional fake-assistant, serving as a face for various venues who want to speak to a representative because the band members’ identities are top secret. She’s found an unexpected life that makes her happy, and that’s all I care about. Even if I do miss her.

But people in Maple Creek ask about her pretty regularly, so Shep and me having the same answer would be good. Ben wants and deserves his professional privacy, and I’m honestly honored to be included in his circle of trust. We should probably fill Mom and Dad in on the cover story, too, so it really sells it for the Gossipy Gertrudes and Geralds around town.

“I really am sorry, Joy. I thought you’d like the flowers and figured you’d get to see them more at the station because I know you work long hours,” Dalton says earnestly. “I didn’t think about what effect that might have for you, and I should have. I’m sorry.”

I can’t help but smile. He can be sweet, when he wants to be. Given that’s not very often, I appreciate that he did send the flowers with thebest of intentions. “Thank you. They are beautiful.” This time when I say it, I truly mean it.

His eyes drop to my lips, like he’s measuring my smile. When his lips lift in answer, the resulting effect is almost boyish, like he’s unbelievably pleased with my eventual reaction. Time stretches, both of us simply grinning at each other stupidly.

“So, shall we?” he asks, getting down to business.

And by business, I mean, showing me his. It’s a quick peek tonight, no talk about what happened before, no over the top touching, just a “here ya go,” and then he puts his dick away, thanking me.

---