Читать онлайн «The Virgin's Proposal»

The Virgin’s Proposal

Shirley Jump

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Standing on a street corner in a banana suit was not the most humiliating thing to happen in Katie’s life, but it came in at a close second.

Dressed from head to toe in yellow felt, she barely remembered what the word dignity meant. She’d checked hers the minute Sarah had talked her into masquerading as a piece of fruit, all to increase sales.

“Hey Chiquita! Can you peel for me?” A carload of teenagers screamed past her. She might as well have been the Soak-the-Bloke clown for all the respect she’d received. Apparently, a five-foot-three, twenty-four-year-old woman in a banana suit was the funniest thing in the tiny town of Mercy, Indiana, today. What kind of suicidal tendencies had made her mention the idea of doing something unique to boost sales to Sarah, soon-to-be-ex-best friend and business partner?

The store. It was all she thought about. Sales had been low when they’d opened a year ago and kept dropping. The rent was due in two weeks, and unfortunately, their bank account didn’t have a big enough balance to cover it. Katie and Sarah had yet to find a way to crack the hold their competition, Flowers and More, a shop in the nearby city of Lawford, had on Mercy. Plenty of weddings, bar mitzvahs, showers and funerals happened around here, but hardly anyone was buying from A Pair of Posies.

If there was some way to get people to notice the store, maybe Katie wouldn’t feel like such a failure—both personally and business-wise. She was desperate to make a go of the store—desperate enough to wear the fruit suit.

She sighed. The four-tone Ford with the teens came swerving back around the corner. “You’d be King Kong’s dream!”

She ignored them, her cheeks hot.

Sales or no sales, the costume was humiliating. Thank God the foam head covered most of her face. The last thing she wanted was anyone finding out it was her under the peel.

She straightened the sign advertising their sale on fruit baskets, then noticed a motorcycle, gleaming in chrome and black, roar down the street toward her and slip into one of the front spaces. She bit her lip and steeled herself for another onslaught of pubescent humor. The rider pulled off his helmet and swung a denim-clad leg over the bike.

Oh. My. God. The man was no teenager and no joke. Motorcycle Man had extra-dark Hershey-brown hair that raked across his brows and set off eyes the color of a twilight sky. He was tall, taller than she and her banana head put together, and lean in a way that said he hadn’t spent hours on a couch playing potato. Stonewashed jeans molded his hips; a white T-shirt hugged his chest. Topped with a battered chestnut-brown leather jacket, he looked as if he’d stepped out of a James Dean movie.