“It’s okay, Basil,” I whisper, adjusting his pot in my arms.
‘That was rude,’he says tenderly.‘She asked you what I was.’
“I know,” I whisper. “But we don’t care, do we?”
I bring the blue and white pot to my face until I hear a contented sigh.
I spot the rectangle Size 20 brown box on the table behind the guard’s desk. Boxes can’t fit into our narrow mail slots made for Size 10 envelopes.
I contain my excitement as the guard reaches for it. I kiss one of Basil’s leaves, bursting with joy and head back upstairs, tucking the box in my other arm.
“Sorry, Basil, I’m too excited. We’ll take the walk outside later, okay?”
Inside my apartment, I set Basil down in his sunny corner, slice open the box, and grin.
“My camera scope,” I breathe.
The instruction booklet is thick, dense with diagrams, but my eyes fly across the words. I can read fast. Faster than most people can talk. My father once said I would eat a stack of books for breakfast if they came with toast.
Within minutes, I’ve installed the app, synced the scope, and clicked all the right boxes. Precision calms me. Eachcheckbox is a heartbeat in the right place.
My pulse is an erratic mess, however, as I creep down the hall, scope in hand. When I slip the wire underneath Rhys’s door and look through the app’s camera for the first time, I nearly pass out.
I see Rhys take a plate of food from the kitchen to his dining room table, and something fuzzy in my stomach blossoms.
My eyes pop open wide. But not at the strange food he’s eating. What makes the air stick in my throat is what’s next to his dish on the table.
Guns.
A whole collection of them. Handguns, a rifle broken down into parts, and rows of ammunition stacked like little soldiers. I should be terrified of such a large collection of weapons with only a few layers of sheetrock between us. But I’m not. Maybe because I grew up around men who carried guns.
Rhys, casual as anything, with a microfiber towel slung over one shoulder, eats while his arsenal is sprawled across the table like honored guests.
My fingers tighten on the scope.
In between bites of a sandwich, he picks up a gun, wipes it down with a cloth, meticulous, reverent. It’s the same way I fuss over leaves, checking for brown spots or aphids. He oils the barrel with the same patience I give my watering can, each stroke deliberate. His hands are just as steady, like he loves his weapons. Like he thinks they love him back. Or they will, if he takes proper care of them.
Like my plants.
My herb babies are my safe place, my anchors. His guns are his.
We’re not so different, Rhys and I.
The thought curls warm in my belly. Instead of horror, I feel…fascinated.
Watching Rhys wipe down the long barrel of what looks like a 9mm, arousal surges through me.
I should hate a man with a gun. A man like Kosta. But I can’t stop staring at Rhys, can’t stop breathing too fast. This hot, tingling wave of emotions floods me. My pulse skips, then gallops. Cheeks burning, I squeeze my thighs together without meaning to, and I’m startled by the rush of heat soaring through my body.
I yank the scope out and curl into a ball against his door, gulping air. Too much, too much. I rub my hands down my arms three times.
One, two, three.
Until the floor beneath me stops rocking and the hallway sconces stop blinking at me.
I get to my feet and rush back to my apartment. My safe space. Staring at my tower of plants, I check on everyone. Everyone’s soil and color are perfect.
“Hey, Cory.” I give the fresh coriander plant a soft tug. “You’re not ready for rehoming. You are, though, Little Basil.”
