“Never,” she says, and the door clicks shut behind her.
I stare at the spot where she stood, the scent of roses mixed with whatever sweet fragrance she was wearing still in the air. And I realize: If I take that contract, I could afford to hire more crew. I could have nights off again. And just maybe, I could have someone to spend my evenings with too.
If only those weren’t selfish reasons . . .
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Madison
62 DAYS UNTIL I FAIL . . .
“Okay, I’m here,” I say, arms wrapped around myself and squinting against the soft golden rays of sun. Sleep still clings to the corners of my eyes.
Meanwhile, James looks like he’s already lived a full day and it’s only sixA.M. He’s in his brown work boots, faded jeans, and hunter-green Huxley Farm logo T-shirt. As he closes his truck bed and turns to me, I catch his smile beneath his hat’s shadow. “Morning, Chef. Ready to go?”
My first answer is a yawn, followed by a question. “Go where?”
“You’re making deliveries with me today.”
“Really?” I say, only now registering the rows of stacked crates in the back of his truck. “You’re actually taking me up on my offer to help?”
“I told you I was.”
“Yeah,” I agree, skepticism in my voice. “But I assumed this would end up being some sort of ploy to take me to a cute bakery or something to get my creative juices flowing.”
“No bakery. But we can stop at the gas station on the way and get a sleeve of donuts if that helps?”
I consider this. “So I’m really coming along today to help you?”
“Yep.”
There’s a catch somewhere, I’m sure of it. James would never accept help this easily.
He hitches his head toward the truck. “Come on. I’ve got you a thermos of coffee in there too.”
I eye him, head turning slowly like an owl to keep track of his suspicious body. “Thoughtful of you.”
Really though, I’m still not used to this side of James. The one who views me as a friend. Who doesn’t look at me like I’m in his way. This James thought of me first thing in the morning and filled a thermos with coffee just for me.
Once we’re both in his truck and bobbing down the long drive that winds from the main greenhouse to the road, I take a sip of the coffee and nearly spit it out all over the dashboard.
“Hot?” he asks.
“No—disgusting,” I blurt, dabbing my mouth with the back of my hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m so appreciative you brought me some caffeine . . . but can I ask why you brewed battery acid instead of coffee?”
He groans. “Not you too.”
“Who else hates it?Wait!Let me guess—everyone?”
“Tommy.”
“Oh well, that doesn’t surprise me. He has good taste.”
“Does he, though? Questionable.” James drapes his hand over the steering wheel and once again I’m having to stuff down this rising tide of attraction. Just look at his wrist. If I wrapped my hand around it, my fingers wouldn’t meet. And those hands—his calluses have calluses. But when my eyes slide up his arm to his face once again, I catch a wince.
“What was that for?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s . . . nothing.”
