A crease formed between his brows. “What?”
“You’re messing with me, aren’t you?” He had to be.
“No . . .”
“There’s an actual flower called the Golden Shower?”
His eyes widened and snapped shut for a split second before he snorted. “Yeah, I’ll make sure to name itCassia fistulain case the Thompsons have the same middle school sense of humor as their interior designer,” he teased.
“Don’t give me that shit. You were totally playing it up,” she said. He tilted his head. “Come on. ‘The blooms start tight but slowly open up, getting more and more excited until they’re completely exposed.’ And ‘And once they get going, they’re absolutely insatiable.” She tilted her chin down. “‘Their blooms just keep coming and coming.’”
“What can I say? Plants are my passion.” He winked, and she didn’t think anyone but a book boyfriend could pull that move off, but Max proved her wrong. “I guess all this time playing in the dirt has given me a dirty mind.”
“I believe it. You turned a garden consultation into soft-core plant porn. I’ll never look at roses the same way again.” His answering smile lit up his whole face, and she had to look away. Opening her stuffed binders, she pulled out paint samples, saying, “After your vivid descriptions, these paint selections for the Thompsons feel a bit . . . sterile. I might swing by the paint store.”
“Do you want a second opinion? I could come with you,”he said.
She’d love it. He had a great eye. And if she was honest, she didn’t want him to leave. A warning bell rang in her head, the same one that had gone off when her ex-fiancé had suggested he manage the financial side of her business. That lull of comfort, of companionship. No. This was different. Professional. “Don’t you have another job to head to?” He’d mentioned a client in Ann Arbor.
He waved a hand. “I’ll go after. I’ve got time.”
“If you don’t mind. I’d appreciate your input, especially since the living room is where the garden will be a focal point.” She met his gaze and poked one of his uneaten grilled cheeses, “I’ll buy you a real sandwich so you don’t have to pretend to like mine.”
He pushed away his plate. “Deal.”
A gust of wind rustled through the open window, scattering crumbs and her paint samples. They reached to catch them, their hands touching, sending a tingle of awareness up her arm. She pulled back first, busying herself with gathering the swatches.
“Ready to go?” he asked, his voice softer than before.
She scooped up her purse and binder and fell in step beside him. “Lead the way, plant whisperer,” she teased, giving him a playful nudge with her elbow. “But could you possibly keep the horticultural erotica to a minimum at the paint store?”
His laugh followed her to the door, deep and genuine. “No promises. Have you heard about the sensual unfurling of the bird of paradise flowers?”
She groaned, shoving his shoulder, pushing him out her front door. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly charming,” he corrected with another wink.
They walked side by side to his truck. She cataloged the little things, like the way his t-shirt sleeves hugged his biceps, how his fingers drummed against his thigh as he walked, that crooked smile when he caught her watching.
Damn it, she was rebuilding her career. Creating perfect spaces, knowing exactly where everything belonged. But this thing with Max—the way he made her feel, the way their work sparked off each other—it didn’t fit in any of her carefully designed boxes. She’d learned the hard way that mixing business and pleasure was the fastest way to lose both.
She’d hired him to help with the Thompson garden, not to make her question every professional boundary she’d set. Yet here she was, looking forward to picking paint colors because he’d be there. Heaven help her if he started describing more flowers.
Chapter Six
August 13th, 5:02 p.m.
Max drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, matching the steady folk rhythm flowing through his speakers. The acoustic guitar and raw vocals carried a wistful melody that matched his mood—light and full of possibility. Working on the indoor garden for the Thompson house was the part he most looked forward to each day. Some of it was the challenges the job presented, but mostly it was Paloma. They didn’t work side by side or even see each other every day, but catching glimpses of her dark hair swinging as she bent over design boards, or hearing her laugh echo through the half-finished rooms had become the highlights of his over-packed schedule.
Earlier that morning, she’d stopped by his office with a question and coffee—fixed exactly how he liked it. They’d talked and tweaked their design vision, making it even stronger. Then somehow, they’d gotten on the topic of music and learned they had the same taste.
He turned up the volume of a band they both loved. Would she want to go to a concert, or was that crossing some professional line?
He turned into his driveway, stopping next to a sleek black Mercedes that didn’t dare have a speck of dirt on it. Shit, had he forgotten Drake was intown? He opened his glovebox and retrieved his phone. There were a few missed calls and text messages from his brother.
Drake: Why do you even have a phone?
I’m in town for work
