Trouble - Tia Louise Page 0,2

floral topiaries of Disney princesses, Mickey Mouse, lions, and everything imaginable from the Disney movies, I got it in my head I wanted to be a part of this. I wanted to build the statues and thread the flowers and have them all over our town.

It’s pretty much all I did in high school. For every homecoming game, wedding, and civic event, one of my oversized floral statues was the centerpiece. Eventually, I gave it up to study massage therapy and sports medicine, but Daisy asked me to make something for her.

Tinkerbell, the brave knight, and a quarterback princess was my mash-up tribute to my cousin and her new family.

Leaning forward, I take a long inhale of the green roses I used for the bodice, but I’m not paying attention. My hair slides across my shoulder and loops around an outstretched hand. When I pull back, the entire statue comes with me, and my arm flails, slinging wine into the air.

“No… Nooo!” My voice modulates like a cartoon character’s, but a firm grip closes around my upper arm, sweeping me up against a hard chest.

“Hang on. I’ve got you.”

“Sorry, I’m…” I’m surrounded by a delicious scent of leather and sandalwood and a touch of patchouli. It smells like money.

“No need to apologize. I figured you didn’t want to end up on your bottom in the middle of the garden.”

As I regain my balance, my eyes slide up a square jaw covered in dark scruff past a perfectly straight nose to a bewitching, smoky blend of green-brown hazel eyes leveled on mine in a way that heats my lower stomach.

“Oh no.” Clearing my throat, I relax my grip on his expensive-feeling, charcoal suit jacket. “I hope I didn’t spill on you.”

“You didn’t.” His dark brow lowers, and I can’t tell if he’s smiling or mentally undressing me. Or both.

I release his forearm and take a step back as his grip on my bicep slowly lessens.

“I made that garden as you call it.” Nodding toward the statue, I polish off the last bit of champagne in my now-empty glass.

“Is that why you watered it?”

“I got caught.” I push a heavy lock of auburn hair behind my shoulder, and his eyes track my every move. “I leaned in too far.”

“It’s beautiful.”

The way he says it and the location of his gaze makes me wonder if he means the statue or my hair. Either way, I feel pink rising in my cheeks.

“Thank you.”

“Are you embarrassed? I would think you’d be accustomed to such praise. It’s a stunning creation. I’m not sure I recognize some of these flowers.”

“Oh.” I exhale a laugh, unsure how to respond. I suck at compliments. “They’re mostly tropicals. Nothing special.”

“I disagree. They’re very special.” He looks at me, and the arrogant clip in his voice sparks my memory.

“I know you. You were in Daisy’s store that day in Oceanside. You’re the antiques guy. Stuart… No…”

“Spencer.” Another tray glides past us, and I lift a flute off it to replace the one I tossed. He watches me. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“No.” I take a sip to spite him. “And I don’t like men telling me what to do.”

His eyes darken, and I feel it in all the right places. “I didn’t mean to overstep, Joselyn.”

“You have a good memory.”

“I never forget a face. Definitely not a redhead.”

“Redheads are trouble, don’t you know?”

“I’m not afraid of trouble.” He grins, and his eyes trace the side of my face, down my neck, like a caress. “Daisy calls you something different. A nickname…”

“Sly.”

“I’m sure there’s a story there.” His deep voice does tingly things to my insides. “I prefer Joselyn.”

I know about this guy. He’s the super-arrogant billionaire who was Daisy’s mentor when she worked at Antiques Today. It’s this big media company that has a magazine and a TV show where they do appraisals, kind of like Antiques Roadshow.

He has a reputation for being cold and distant, and he’s clearly used to bossing people around. He wants to boss me around, and I feel a hostile horniness at the prospect.

I want to rip his clothes off or pick a fight with him or pick a fight with him and then rip his clothes off and have rough, sweaty, angry sex…

I have definitely had enough to drink.

Setting my flute on a nearby table, I spot a familiar face holding a tray of finger foods. “Excuse me just a second.”

I leave Mr. Bossy Sex-god to grab some alcohol-absorbing munchies.

“Hey, Sly.” The friendly guy