The Bouquet List by Barbara Deleo Page B

crazy. And ever so slightly jealous. What must it feel like to just do whatever you wanted, whenever the mood hit you? What would that sense of freedom, that blowing in the face of convention, feel like? If the look on her face was anything to go by, it’d feel pretty damn good.
    Yasmin removed the cropped jacket she was wearing over a sunny yellow dress and took the sock from him, smiling. “You know you want to do it. I can see the thrill in your eyes.”
    She sat down to put the first sock on while he removed the second one. Finally, he was standing barefoot and she held out her hand for him to help her up.
    “I’ll expect you to fix any holes you put in them,” he said gruffly as he pulled her up.
    “Life’s too short to darn socks,” she said with a grin. She looked so perfect with her simple yellow dress, her purple and black hair caught in a turquoise head scarf. With his black socks pulled up on her smooth calves, she looked like something out of an alternate Disney fairy tale. All he could focus on was those lips he’d kissed yesterday and the feel of her arms looped around his neck. A second too late he realized he’d been holding her hand too long, and he hurriedly dropped it and put his own behind his back.
    He’d justified the kiss at the fabric store as Yasmin being carried away with the excitement of the drapes. He felt he’d dealt with it successfully.
    She gave him a wink and then started moving away, pushing her feet out like she was an Olympic ice skater. When she reached the far side of the room she turned and leaned against the wall. “Okay, here goes!” She started to run, gaining speed so that the head scarf flitted out behind her. When she reached the middle of the room, she threw her arms out, twisted her body to the left and went sliding all the way to the other wall.
    “Woohoo!” she cried. “Can you imagine what it’s going to be like when we use this as a dance floor? I want to see Paulo in here doing a few of his salsa moves.”
    The high, musical tone of her voice echoed around the walls and high ceilings until it almost felt as though her voice was playing in his head. He smiled. How could a twenty-four-year-old sound thrilled about simply sliding across a floor? He had no idea, but damn if it wasn’t making his heart beat stronger.
    She set off again, reached the middle, then let out a whoop as she made it to the other side. “Wanna go?” she panted as she struck a pose like a sprinter and then set off across the floor once again. “I’ll give you your socks back if you promise you’ll do it just once.”
    “Plenty more black socks where those came from. You’re welcome to them.” He knew he should have been measuring the wall for painting, knew that time was precious and that they didn’t have time for screwing around, but he couldn’t stop watching her. God, what was it that made her so captivating? That made him feel lighter when he was with her?
    It was true that he was fascinated by the ballsy way she dressed as she liked, putting color matches together that should have been illegal. And it was also true that he enjoyed hearing her talk about her love for her family and her friends, her studies, and the things she was passionate about. But the thing that made her so captivating and so easy to be around was that everything was just fun for her.
    Never in a million years would he have thought about sliding across this floor in nothing but his socks, but to a woman like Yasmin, it was the most natural thing in the world.
    Finally, she stood against the far wall, her hand digging into her side as if she had a stitch, her breath coming in quick bursts. “I used to come in here as a little girl, the night before a wedding,” she said, then paused to get more breath. “I wasn’t allowed to. Mom would have killed me if she’d known, but it was just so magical. I’d sneak in and turn the lights on and the glasses would sparkle and the silverware shine. Flowers