Budding Attraction (Divorced Men's Club Book 3), page 1
BUDDING ATTRACTION
DIVORCED MEN’S CLUB
BOOK 3
SAXON JAMES
CONTENTS
About This Book
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
DMC Group Chat
Chapter 3
DMC Group Chat
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Emotional Support Chat
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
DMC Group Chat
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Emotional Support Chat
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
My Freebies
Other Books By Saxon James
Want More From Me?
Acknowledgments
ABOUT THIS BOOK
Ford:
I’ve never thought much about Orson Naples.
He’s a cute guy who I’d seen around town a few times, but then one day he up and left and didn’t reappear until a few years later. No one knows where he went or what he was doing, all this gossipy town knows is that he’s a widower, owns the florist, and is friends with that divorced group that hang out at the Killer Brew all the time.
But then one day I step into his flower shop and go from rarely thinking about him, to him constantly being on my mind.
There’s a restlessness to him that I’m dying to unlock answers to.
And his eyes linger on me a little too long for a straight man …
Orson:
Ford Thomas is a pest. A delightful one. A tempting one. But I’m too old for games.
The ones I’ve played in the past have always led me to trouble which is why I vowed to settle down and live a quiet life.
So when Ford walks into my shop all uncontained energy and flirty quips in a pair of heavy work boots, I know I should show him the door.
I don’t need fun. I don’t need experiences.
Especially when those experiences have me questioning things I thought I knew about myself.
Copyright ©
BUDDING ATTRACTION - 2022 Saxon James
All rights reserved.
First published in Australia by May Books 2022
Newcastle, NSW, Australia
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
Created with Vellum
DEDICATION
This one is for my three boys.
I hope one day they’re as fearless as Orson and Ford.
1
Orson
“Ah, fuck,” I mutter, springing up off the ground. My ass is tender from landing wrong, and my skin prickles with the uncomfortable dampness seeping through my pants and underwear. I twist around to get a good look, and yep. Between the water and the soil turned mud, anyone would think I shit my pants.
What a beautiful start to the day.
I pick up the pot I’d knocked over, upending more soil in the process, before going to get supplies to clean up. The shop is already open, but it’s midweek and thankfully quiet, so there’s no one around to witness this.
Silver linings. It’s a minor inconvenience that no one will ever know about.
At least, that’s what I think.
Just as I’ve finished cleaning the floors and am trying to work out what the hell to do about the mess on my pants, the bell over the door sounds, and I dart back out front.
Then almost trip over my feet.
Ford Thomas is standing in the middle of my florist, looking completely out of place.
He’s tall and thick and covered in tattoos, wearing his heavily stained mechanics uniform and taking up more room in my little shop than should be physically possible.
Even being the only person in the room, he manages to make it feel crowded. It’s not hard to see why people think he’s scary at first glance, because when that intense stare falls on me, I feel like I might rattle out of my skin.
“Morning,” he says cheerfully.
I snap out of … whatever that was. “Hey. Ah … flowers. Want some?”
“Is that what these fluffy little things are called?”
I eye him, thrown off by the genuine confusion in his tone, when—
He bursts out laughing. “Shit, you believed that?”
“No.”
“Sure you did. Just how dumb do you think I am?” Ford’s grin lightens his whole face.
A chuckle slips from me. “We haven’t officially met before. I’m Orson. Florist, forty-five, and extremely gullible.”
“Eh.” He shrugs. “Are you gullible or just trusting?”
“Definitely the first one.”
His intense stare is traded for an amused one, and when his eyes lock onto mine suddenly, the room gets warmer. Shit. Not good for the flowers. I drop his gaze and shuffle over to the thermostat to check the temperature—all while trying to keep my back turned away from him. I’m overly aware of the wet clothing clinging to my skin, and even without looking at him, I can feel him following my every move.
“Do you think it’s weird?” he asks.
I have no choice but to glance back over. My hands feel awkward and cumbersome, so I tuck them into the front of my apron. “What’s weird?”
“We’ve lived in the same town all these years and never actually met.”
“There are a lot of people in this town. If you’ve never needed flowers before, you likely wouldn’t have met me.”
He nods. “You don’t go out?”
“Rarely.” I reach over and pluck a dying leaf from one of my arrangements. I used to go out all the time after my wife died, and it got me into a lot of trouble that I never want to relive. “Just not my scene.”
He hums, and my attention flicks back to him in time to catch him openly checking me out. Openly. His gaze runs from my head down my legs and back up again. “You ever date?”
“What?”
His lips hitch up on one side. “You’re cute. Figured I might as well ask.”
“For … someone? Or for … you?” And I have no idea why my voice is coming out all stilted like this, but damn, I need it to stop.
There’s something knowing in his eyes. “Me.”
“Oh.” My face burns. “But I’m straight though …”
His eyebrows lift, eyes still locked on mine. “Okay.”
“Right. So, flowers?”
“The fluffy things. Yeah.”
I throw him a fuck you smirk, finally able to focus on something that doesn’t make me feel like I’ve been hiked out of a plane. “What’s the occasion?”
“My parents’ fortieth anniversary.”
“Congratulations to them.”
“Yeah, their anniversary is always a great reminder that I’m a bastard.”
Feeling emboldened, I ask, “You need the reminder?”
He rewards me with another of those loud laughs. “Just good to get confirmation it’s not completely my fault.”
“Once a bastard, always a bastard?”
“Exactly.”
I circle him to get to a flower display, keeping my ass pointed in the opposite direction. “I don’t think you’re doing a very good job of upholding that image.”
“Oh, really?”
“From what I hear, you’re a total softie.”
“First, they’re lying. Second, you’ve heard about me, huh?”
I shoot down the interest in his tone. “I’m friends with Payne.”
“I knew I never liked that guy.” Ford’s smile gives him away. “He’s actually the reason I’m here myself. Usually my assistant runs errands and things like this for me, but since Payne left the garage, I’m an assistant short. Again.”
“That sucks.”
“You’re telling me. I swear every time I get someone trained up, they move on to something better. But enough of me whining. Which flowers say your bastard son loves you?”
“Can’t say I’ve heard that one. Nasturtium is technically for fortieth anniversaries, but I don’t stock it because they turn bad so quickly. And I think they’re ugly. Gladioli are used too, and I have some of those …” Of course, right across the room. “Ah, there …” I point to a bright bouquet that’s closer to Ford than me. He glances in the direction and points at the wrong one.
“This?”
“The next one.” As soon as he turns to look, I hurry over and angle my back away again.
Ford eyes me. “You all right?”
“Excited about flowers.” I wave my hand over them. “Now, do we want to go traditional with this bunch, or there’s the roses, or you could go simple and elegant with something in pastels …”
“What would you pick?”
I point to the one with the gladioli in it. “I’m a traditionalist.”
“Easy decision, then.”
“Right.” I pick up the flowers, and then …
My gaze flicks to the counter on the other side of my shop. Shit.
Ford’s watching me again, and there’s something too shrewd in his gaze.
I wave my arm. “After you.”
“No. After you.”
Motherfucker. “Guests first.”
“Actually, I’m a customer, not a guest, and the customer is always right.”
My eyes widen. “I really insist.”
“So do I, sweetheart.” He leans in. “And I’m a stubborn guy. I can do this all day.”
A curl of something shivers through me. “Okay, so, counter …”
“Ring me up.”
I don’t move. Sure, I could turn around and laugh it off, but there’s something completely wrong with Ford having that picture of me in his head. Let’s see him think I’m cute with shit all up my back.
“Actually, take them,” I say. “They’re on the house.”
His expression has gone from amused to concerned to what the hell is going on here?
I force a smile.
His frown deepens. And he still doesn’t take the flowers.
Ford steps to the side, and I jerk around, realizing a second too late that there was nothing natural about my movement.
“Normally I’d assume you’re doing some kinda homophobic thing with not wanting to turn your back on the gay man, but …” His eyes light up with mischief. “There’s something else going on here, isn’t there?”
“Don’t know what you mean?”
“Oh. So you are homophobic?”
“No, I’m …” I slump. “Fine. I was trying to save myself the embarrassment.” I suck in and hold a deep breath, then turn and walk to the counter.
His laughter follows me the entire way. “What the fuck did you do?”
“I was watering some flowers, backed up into a pot, knocked it over, and went ass over tits into the mess.”
Somehow, his laughter doubles.
“You good yet?” I try to give him a dry look, but my lips twitch.
“Funny how there’s no mess left to corroborate your story.”
“I cleaned it up!”
“Uh-huh, I’m sure.”
“I did.”
He lifts his hands. “I’m not questioning you.”
“You are trying to stir me up though.”
“What was that you said about me being nice earlier?”
“Ah … the true Ford comes out.” And wow, the teasing note that comes with my words almost, almost sounds like flirting. But … why? I’m not interested in a date with him, but even I can recognize there’s something about him that’s comforting. Thrilling? Both? I’m not even sure that’s possible. Just talking to him is like waiting in line for a roller coaster.
I ring him up and round the counter to hand over the flowers, but before he takes them, Ford shrugs out of his jacket.
“What are you—”
“Here.” He steps forward and loops it around my waist, then ties the sleeves together. This close, I can smell … motor oil … aftershave … sweat … and I don’t hate it. It speaks to long days working with his hands, surrounded by cars, getting filthy …
I tear my gaze from his chest and find him watching me. His hands have dropped from his jacket, but we’re still way too close.
“Ah, thanks …” I shove the flowers at his chest. “I hope they like them.”
He’s slow to take the bunch, thick, rough fingers brushing my own. “I’m confident they will.”
“Great. Have a …” Fuck, what do I normally say?
He smiles. “You too.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me with his warm jacket around my waist and a shop that smells like motor oil and … possibility.
2
Ford
I finish my order for the parts I need shipped in when a commotion outside my office makes me glance up. Three of my office walls have enormous windows, giving a clear view of almost the entire workshop, and I immediately spot someone who shouldn’t be out there.
Orson.
Walking through my workshop with my jacket slung over his shoulder like he’s strolling through the fucking daisies instead of between my grease gremlins. And hey, I’m not about to complain.
I lean back in my chair, not bothering to hide my grin as he walks into my office without knocking. Holy Corvette, he looks hot today. Well, every day, but today especially. His gray tee is stretched over his chest, silver-streaked scruff trimmed neatly, and fluffy dark hair all styled and shiny. It’s tempting me to bury my fingers in it and tug.
He lays my heavy jacket over the desk, forearm muscles bunching with the movement. “You know, most people at least try to hide when they’re eye-fucking someone.”
I chuckle. “You gullible enough to believe I was only trying to remember who you are?”
“Not even close.”
“Worth a shot. Besides, I’ve always been told I can look with my eyes and not with my hands. Just following Momma’s rules.”
“Respectful mother.”
“Bastard son.” I give him a quick wink, wanting to move on from this conversation. He says he’s straight, so I’m gonna go ahead and believe him, even if the way he eyes me makes me think there’s at least a little curiosity there.
I’m not about playing games with men, so if he wants a piece of all this, he’s going to have to get to that conclusion on his own.
“Thanks for the jacket,” he says. He’s got a nice voice. Deep, but not overly so. Kind, light, like he has no problems. Which is horseshit, given he lost his wife and … My gaze strays to the scars on his forearms before I jerk it away again.
“Always gonna help out a damned man in distress,” I say.
“And there’s the nice guy showing through again.”
I grunt. “Determined to ruin my reputation, aren’t you?”
“I think I’d have fun doing it. Showing the world what an upstanding gentleman you are.”
“An upstanding gentleman who’s been to prison?” The words are a test to see how he reacts.
“I’ve heard those rumors.” He eyes me with interest, but the amusement hasn’t left his face. Good to know he doesn’t scare easy. “Is it true?”
“You’re one of only a handful of people to ask me that directly.”
“And let me guess, that’s all you’re gonna give me?”
“Smart man.”
“Keep your secrets.” He paces slowly, fingertips brushing the things on the edge of my desk as he looks at the framed car posters on the wall behind me. The only wall in my office that isn’t almost all glass. “Interesting collection you have up there.”
“Yup. Those are my babies.”
He hums, eyes lingering a little longer. There are four cars up there. Three are absolute beasts of engineering, and the fourth … holds more sentimental value than anything.
