He also had a firm, expressive mouth that was a genuine pleasure to kiss. Such as now. “You taste like peanut butter,” I told him, nibbling his lips. “Mmm. Makes me hungry.” ›

“You’re making me hungry, too,” he growled. We kissed again; then my stomach decided to join in the chorus, growling loud and long and not at all provocatively, definitely spoiling the romantic flavor of the moment.

“Sorry. I haven’t had lunch. I guess I should eat something.”

He turned and stretched across his desk for an open bag of nuts, affording me a great view of his backside. Hmm. Hot Pockets wasn’t such a bad nickname after all.

He held out the bag. “I’ll share these with you. So, what happened? I thought the Home and Garden Show ran until five o’clock.”

I grabbed a handful of peanuts and took a seat in one of the sleek black leather chairs in front of his desk as he relaxed in the matching chair beside me. “There was a slight hitch.”

Marco’s eyebrows rose. Such an endearing expression. So I gave him the whole story, from my petition failure through the candy disaster, omitting only my promise to Tara. When I stopped talking and reached for more nuts, I noticed Marco’s mouth quirking up at the corners, as it usually does when he’s amused.

“So, other than causing a minor panic with bleeding hearts, ticking off Nils Raand and two security guards with your petition, and getting your mom, Tara, and yourself booted out of the exposition center, how was the show?”

With a sigh, I leaned my head against the back of the chair. “Forty-three signatures. It’s disheartening, Marco. People simply don’t want to take a stand against injustice. I mean, everyone is busy, but how can they close their eyes to what’s happening?”

He drew my hand to his lips and pressed a sensual kiss in my palm. Tingles ran up my arm and landed in my pleasure zone, bringing a blissful sigh to my lips that made me forget my frustrations.

He kissed the inside of my wrist. “I’m sorry you’re having a bad day. Did anything good happen?”

“I promised Tara I’d take her to a Barrow Boys concert on February fourteenth for her birthday gift. Have you heard of the Barrow Boys?”

“Sure. I spend long hours on stakeouts, don’t forget, so I listen to lots of radio. The Barrow Boys are a good group. I like their music.”

Good thing, since that was how he’d be spending part of Valentine’s Day.

“That reminds me”-he pulled me onto his lap-“I finished my investigation this morning and got a nice fat check from it. So what do you say I take you to dinner somewhere pricey?”

“You are so on.”

“How about Adagio’s? I’ll pick you up at six.”

A. Mazing. I was thinking the same thing! Putting my arms around his neck, I said, “How about I wear my green silk dress?”

His pupils darkened as though he was already imagining me in that dress; then he kissed me, a deep, slow, intimate kiss that made me thirst for more. He was such a sucker for green.

“I’ve got to call for those concert tickets before they’re all gone,” I told him, reluctantly ending our kiss. “Tara would be crushed if she didn’t get to go.”

I reached for my coat and he stood to help me put it on. How many guys did that? “Oh. One more thing. Tara wants us both to take her. She needs two chaperones, and we were selected as the cool ones. Is that okay with you? It is on Valentine’s Day.” I held my breath.

“Sure.”

Was Marco not the best? I didn’t call him my hero for nothing. “Great! Thanks. She’ll be delighted.” I put on my beret, then paused. “I have to warn you, Tara has joined the campaign to get us to set a wedding date. I told her we were still discussing it.”

“Are we?”

“Discussing it?”

“We haven’t been.”

“We haven’t?”

“Maybe we should.”

“Wait. Are we talking about discussing setting a date or actually setting a date?”

“Discussing.”

“At dinner?”

“Yep.”

I gave him a light kiss and headed for the door. “See you at six.”

That was another great quality about Marco. He was always open for discussion.

I left Down the Hatch through the back exit and headed up the alley to my flower shop two stores away. Wow. Hard to believe we were seriously going to discuss setting a date for our wedding. After we’d promised our families we’d think about it, Marco hadn’t said anything further on the subject. I thought he’d been avoiding it. Maybe he thought I’d been avoiding it, too.

Okay, I had been avoiding it. The last time I’d made that big decision, my fiancé, Pryce Osborne II, dumped me two months before we were scheduled to walk down the aisle. So, sure, I was a little shy about taking that step again.

Still, I knew I shouldn’t compare Pryce to Marco. Pryce was a spoiled, self-centered mama’s boy who was used to getting his way, whereas Marco was considerate, helpful, family oriented, and had a strong work ethic-everything a husband should be. He had so many pluses, I doubted I could list them all, although, come to think of it, I probably should. Just for, you know, peace of mind. In fact, as soon as I had a few free minutes, I’d write them down.

So tonight we’d lay it all out on the table. I was actually getting excited.

I reached the back entrance to Bloomers and tugged on the heavy, fireproof door, cringing at the loud noise made by ancient, rusty hinges as I inched it open. But at the one-foot mark it stopped, refusing to budge until I wedged myself halfway inside and leaned my shoulder into it. Once in the building, I had to grab on to the handle and pull back as hard as I could until it slammed shut. Darned old door! It seemed to get worse by the season.

I’d gone before the city building commission in September to ask permission to put in a wider door, along with a small loading ramp, because as it was now, deliveries were a hassle. But so far, my request had been ignored. To see if there was a problem with my request, I had sent a letter to Peter Chinn, the assistant city attorney, who oversaw the building commission. When that didn’t garner any reply, I sent more letters, then called and e-mailed his office repeatedly, but he was ignoring me, too, and I really hated to be ignored. I wanted a new door!

Despite its flaws, I dearly loved the narrow, three-story redbrick building that housed Bloomers. Built around 1900, it had original wood floors, tin ceilings, and brick walls, giving the shop a cozy feeling modern structures simply couldn’t duplicate.

I took off my coat and hat and hung them on hooks along the wall behind the door. To my right was a small kitchen. Straight ahead, down the steep stairs, was a basement where we stored big pots, bags of potting medium, tall floral stands, and anything too large to fit in the workroom. Beyond the kitchen and tiny bathroom was the workroom, my favorite place in the whole world. And beyond that was the sales floor, also known as the shop, with a Victorian-inspired coffee-and-tea parlor in an adjacent room.

For a moment, I stood just inside the workroom doorway, breathing in the sweet floral aromas and basking in the coziness of the space. It was jam-packed with dried flowers, silk flowers, baskets, vases, and two huge, walk-in coolers filled with fresh flowers. It also held a desk with my computer equipment on it, a large worktable in the center, and rows of shelving on two walls. As my assistant, Lottie Dombowski, always said, “A place for everything and everything in its place.”

Before I forgot, I called the Hot Tix hotline and ordered three tickets for the Barrow Boys concert. I ended the call just as Lottie came through the purple curtain. She had on her usual pink sweatshirt, white jeans, and pink sneakers, and today her short, brassy curls sported silver barrettes.

Lottie owned Bloomers before I did. In fact, I worked for her during summers home from college, making deliveries and assisting in the workroom. She was a big woman with a big heart and a bigger family-four boys, quadruplets, who were about to turn eighteen.