The Protea Boys
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty- Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty- Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Biography
The Protea Boys
Tea Cooper
Breathless Press
Calgary, Alberta
www.breathlesspress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Protea Boys
Copyright © 2013 Tea Cooper
ISBN: 978-1-77101-991-0
Cover Artist: Mina Carter
Editor: Haleigh Rucinski
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Breathless Press
www.breathlesspress.com
Dedication
This one is for you, Lorraine.
Cheers!
To friendship and unconditional love.
Chapter One
“Stop right there.”
Georgie Martin stalled, and her work boots skidded out from under her.
“Watch where you’re going with those wretched flowers. The floor’s wet.”
Almost swallowing the enormous pink blooms clasped in her arms, Georgie sank to the floor with a resounding crack. With the galvanized bucket clutched tightly to her chest, there was little she could do. “I’m sorry... I was wondering if you would be...”
How ridiculous
.
Shifting the flowers from side to side in frustration, she tried to find the owner of the exasperated male voice. She could sense his presence, but the forest of flowers made it impossible to see anything. And to add insult to injury, the water from the bucket sloshed all over the sides, making it slippery and almost impossible to hold. She grasped it tightly, praying she wouldn’t drop it and make even more of a mess.
“Here, give it to me.” A large pair of hands grabbed the bucket. “Can you get up?”
“Yes...I think so.” Keeping her eyes focused on the pair of paint-stained Levi’s, she lifted her hips, eased her feet underneath her body, and stood. Her blood pressure clattered in her eardrums as everything blurred, and she swayed, her repeated apology dying on her lips.
His tanned face, high cheekbones, and clear green eyes disappeared behind the flowers.
Lucky flowers
.
The idea of those arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, sent a tremor up her spine. Georgie blinked and pushed her tangled hair from her face, smoothed her shirt, and resorted to another mumbled apology.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t notice the wet floor—these ‘wretched flowers’ were in the way.” She reached out, intent on snatching the bucket back from the man, but he beat her to it and put it down on the scrubbed wooden dresser behind him with an exaggerated sigh.
“Now, what can I do for you, sweetheart?” A grin hovered on his sensual lips as he wiped his wet hands down his chest.
Georgie narrowed her eyes and clenched her fists, trying to resist the temptation to smack the denigrating grin right off his handsome face. Not that it would do her much good. His broad shoulders and muscled chest would probably absorb every bit of her best-aimed punch, bounce it right back at her. A rush of heat washed up through her body, almost overpowering her, and she fanned her face, swallowing her frustration while she tried to concentrate on what he was saying.
He raised a very dark eyebrow into a shock of brown, almost black, hair. “We’re not open yet.”
The man leaned closer and reached out. A frown etched his tanned forehead; he was obviously confused by the gabbling fool who stood in the middle of a puddle on his wet floor. Then he cupped her elbow with his hand, and a surge of anticipation smacked her stomach the moment flesh touched flesh. Her brain instantly cleared, and she scrubbed at the goose bumps stippling her arms.
Shaking the hair from her eyes, Georgie stepped back, gazing up into his piercing green eyes. Her breath caught, and for safety’s sake, she took another step farther back, determined to reclaim some personal space and her shattered equilibrium. More than anything else in the world she wanted to turn on her heels and run, but her legs seemed to think otherwise. They wanted to—just lean.
Seven, eight, nine, ten
, she counted, as her therapist had told her, and the
perspective of the room shifted back into focus. Then she heaved a slow sigh and prayed she wouldn’t spontaneously combust.
When the pounding in her chest settled, she sucked in a deep breath. “I called in to find out if you’d be interested in buying my proteas for the restaurant on a regular basis.” She gasped in some more air and rushed on. “I can either sell them to you individually or I can provide you with an arrangement.”
A long, agonizing pause stretched out.
Any arrangement you like, preferably one that includes the two of us, up close and personal.
Finally he answered. “Protea, huh? I would have thought roses would better suit a blushing flower like you.”
Incapable of controlling the infuriating heat sweeping her body, Georgie looked frantically around for something, anything, in the newly decorated room with its neatly spaced tables and pristine white tablecloths to cover her confusion and change the subject.
The large, open fireplace won. “An arrangement would look lovely in the fireplace during summer.” The banality of her comment made her cringe. Totally embarrassed, she sneaked a quick look at him from under her lashes, expecting his penetrating gaze to be fixed on her.
It wasn’t.
He seemed to be lost in some reminiscence, staring at the flowers, his eyes blank and distant. Her hopes plummeted as she waited in the uncomfortable silence until she couldn’t stand it a moment longer.
“Of course if you don’t think they’d be right for the place, then...”
“No.” The man’s curt reply sounded simply rude. “I’m not interested. Proteas aren’t for me.” Then he turned on his heel with almost military precision, giving her the full benefit of his tight, and very cute, butt and walked to the door. With a look that would have done her grade eight mathematics teacher proud, he held the door open.
Arrogant swine.
Lesson over, and smarting from her dismissal, Georgie
picked up the dripping bucket of flowers from the dresser and sauntered through the door without a backward glance, all the while taking great care not to slip.
Tossing her hair back, she swore under her breath—cold calling would definitely be removed from her list of selling strategies. She’d stick to firm orders in future.
Firm orders. Firm. Yep, that was certainly a firm body.
As she stamped her way back over the cobblestones, the vision of a cat, not some domestic moggy, but a lithe, predatory cat reclining on the branch of a tree, anticipating its prey, sprang to mind
.
She gave an involuntary shiver
.
He can scratch my psyche any day.
Defiantly, she continued her march to the car, the steel caps of her work boots clicking with every step.
Forget it, kiddo. With your track record, it can only spell disaster.
***
Tom Morgan leaned back against the doorjamb and squinted into the sun, his arms folded across his wet T-shirt. He grinned at the indignant figure stomping back up the road. He’d probably been a bit hard on her, but the sight of the huge protea flowers had thrown him, thrown him back to a place he had no intention of ever visiting again. It wasn’t much of an excuse, but it was going to have to do.
The creak of the dusty door of her four-wheel drive drifted through the humidity. She leaned into the back of the car with the bucket in one arm and deposited the flowers. Under all the khaki, there was probably a great pair of legs screaming to get out. Tom raked his hair back from his forehead and scratched his head. Why did women do that to themselves? He liked his women in chiffon dresses, strappy sandals, and elegant, shady hats, not cargo pants and work boots.
The Land Cruiser lurched out from the curb and spluttered off down the street.
“That’s the most appalling piece of driving I’ve seen in a long time,” Tom announced to the sandstone building, as a haze of blue exhaust fumes covered the village of Gum Tree Crossing.
Chapter Two
Georgie was certain of only one thing—she couldn’t have told anyone the details of her trip home. She’d operated on remote, and her mind certainly hadn’t been on the winding road snaking up out of the village to the farm. Her reactions had her stumped, annoyed, and totally convinced abstinence had made her brain shrivel.
Rubbing her forehead, she tried to erase the indelible impressions crammed into her aching head. What was the matter with her? She’d worked harder than a navvy over the past months to ignore every male she came across, from the old gardener to the bob-a-job Boy Scout who’d cleared the paddocks for her. She’d had to. Her appalling track record and the way she had become the laughingstock of her own business still made her skin crawl. How could she have been the only one who hadn’t known her boyfriend was dating his ex-wife? Her naivety appalled her. Shaking her head in despair, she negotiated the rutted driveway that led home.
***
In one well-practiced, fluid movement, Georgie kicked off her work boots and ignored yet another dent in the paintwork as they bounced against the doorstep. Her relief lasted exactly one second before the phone rang and she made a lunge for it.
“I have had the best idea.”
Hillary’s excitement billowed out of the phone like smoke, making Georgie grin as she perched on the side of the wooden stool and flexed her cramped toes.
“Hiya. Long time, no see.” She rolled her eyes and chuckled. It had only been yesterday they’d shared a coffee and a gripe about the problems facing single women and small businesses.
“Listen, I’ve been reading the local paper, and Carl’s truck is up for sale. I think we should buy it. It will solve all our problems.”
“Oh, great idea, Hill. But how’s it going to solve all our problems?” Some days the memory of the simple pleasure of hailing a taxi, or better still, buying a take-away coffee made her wonder why she’d given up life in Sydney.
“You need someone to work around your place, and I certainly need some help here. Added to that, half the valley is crying out for gardening services and a handyman.”
“Aren’t we just?” Georgie massaged the muscles along her spine with her spare hand. “How’s a truck going to solve the problem?” If her current performance was anything to go by, she couldn’t even sell a bunch of flowers, never mind drive a truck. “We’d have a truck. Best-case scenario, we’d have a truck full of brush cutters, ride-on mowers, and shovels. Who’s going to use them? I’m rapidly proving my inability.”
“That’s where the brilliant idea comes in.” Hillary’s voice overflowed with excitement. “We buy the truck, we’ve already got all the gear, and then we advertise for guys to work for us. We organize the jobs, and they go and do them, and at the same time, we never have to worry about finding someone to work on our places.”
