Snipped in the Bud by Kate Collins

found.”
    “You know what I think about that?” Marco said, taking the glass from my hand. He tugged me over to sit on his lap, then put his arms around me. “I think you should stop thinking about the murder. You’ve got more important things to do right now.”
    I leaned my forehead against his. “Yeah, like finishing all those orders waiting for me.”
    “Actually, I was referring to that kiss we’d started earlier.”
    “I was hoping you’d bring that up.” I tilted my head up and our lips connected, an Irish-Italian fusion. Marco’s mouth was hot and hard against mine, and I could smell a hint of the soap he used on his skin, a little bit spicy, a little bit sweet, and a whole lot intoxicating.
    Why not stay here all evening and practice these kisses? the little imp inside me whispered. I was all set to agree with her when my practical side stepped in. Right. Then you’ll be up half the night knocking out those flower arrangements, and you know how testy you get when you haven’t had your sleep. I was nothing if not practical.
    “I suppose,” I said after a few long, slow, sexy kisses, “I should get my orders done so we’ll have time to go dancing.” I was kind of hoping he’d try to talk me out of it, but Marco was even more practical than I was.
    He pulled back to look at me with those bedroom eyes, tracing the outline of my lips with his index finger. “I suppose you’re right. How about if I walk you down to Bloomers?”
    As options went, it wasn’t as good as staying there and kissing him, but I took it anyway.
    Except for the bars and restaurants, all the businesses around the square closed at five o’clock, so the sidewalks were fairly deserted as we strolled hand in hand up the block. Marco waited while I unlocked the door and disabled the alarm, then he stepped inside to scope out the premises—a habit he’d picked up from his Army Ranger training.
    “It’s clear.” He checked his watch. “I’ll be back in two hours. Lock the door behind me.”
    Suddenly, there was a squeal of tires in the street outside, followed by a loud crash. We rushed out the door to find out what had happened, as did patrons of the several eating establishments on the square. Around the corner, on the south side of the courthouse lawn, a badly rusted Pontiac Grand Am had smashed into a car parked in one of the angled spaces, and now sat with its front end crumpled and steam coming out from under the mangled hood. As I watched, the door creaked open and a teenaged boy emerged, appearing dazed but not injured. The other doors opened and three more boys got out, all looking bewildered.
    Marco muttered something that sounded like, “That’s Mike Arr!” as he started across the street at a fast jog. I followed, thinking he’d recognized one of the teens. It wasn’t until I got closer that I realized he was actually saying “my car.” The teens had crashed into Marco’s dark green Chevy. Hadn’t I warned him? There was no avoiding the Rule of Three.
    The police station was across the street, so within moments cops came pouring out the door. An ambulance arrived next and two EMTs examined the boys to make sure they hadn’t been injured. Meanwhile, Marco was on his cell phone, trying to reach a towing service. He put his hand over the phone and said, “Looks like we’re going to have to reschedule our date.”
    “That’s all right. I have lots to do. I just hope your car isn’t too badly damaged.” I couldn’t resist adding, “And in case you weren’t counting, that was bad luck number thr—”
    He held up his palm to stop me. “Don’t go there.”
    I went to Bloomers instead.

    Making sure to lock the door, I headed for the workroom, where I popped an Enya CD into the portable player on the counter and pulled the first order from the spindle. It was for a birthday basket of fresh flowers in bright, autumn colors. I went to the cooler to pull orange lilies, yellow button mums, red carnations,