“You’ve got mail,” he says.
I peer over his shoulder and groan. “Oh, for the love of?—”
“Valentine’s Day mixer. Join your neighbors for sweets, drinks, and romantic fun in the clubhouse,” he reads aloud.
I make a face.
“You really don’t like Valentine’s.”
“It’s lazy,” I mutter. “Manufactured, heart-shaped, rose-colored romance.”
He glances at the flyer again, then back at me. “If it weren’t for Valentine’s Day, my business would dry up between New Year and St. Patrick’s.”
I tilt my head. “See? That’s exactly the point.”
“Running me out of business?” he deadpans.
“No. I mean it’s easy, generic, cheapening the real stuff.” I shift and tug the sheet tighter across my chest. “There’s nothing wrong with flowers, chocolates, and cute little trinkets and baubles. But who wants to be lumped in with millions of women getting the same damn thing that guys haven’t put an ounce of thought into?”
Greg’s expression softens. “I’m not just some guy, Darby. I don’t take the easy way out of anything.”
I blink, mulling that over for a second. My chest tightens, and my damn pulse takes off like a race horse. “Are… are we a couple?”
“I’d like that,” he says quietly. “If that’s what you want.” He holds my gaze with a steady proficiency that makes my stomach flip flop. “I think you’re pretty special. There’s no one in the world like you, Darby.”
I nod, my entire body on the verge of a nervous system shutdown. For once in my life, I have no words.
Greg
By midafternoon my growing impatience gets the better of me. I hover over the hybrid with a moisture meter in my hand, muttering under my breath while I check the same three variables for the fourth time in an hour.
Temperature steady. Soil composition right where it should be. Light exposure ideal. I scribble numbers in my notebook, dark grooves carving into the paper from how hard I press the pen.
“You going to start performing or kick the bucket?” I tell the plant, crouching to peer at the stems from a new angle. “Because I’m not babysitting you for another six months. Bloom, or I throw you out and start over.”
Frustration sits heavy in my chest, and I don’t bother pretending otherwise. Everything in the data says it should be thriving. Instead, I’ve got glossy leaves, healthy growth, and not a single bud to show for nearly a year of work. The wasted time gnaws at me. Results matter. They always have. You put in the time, you do the work, you get something to show for it. That’s the rule I live by.
Except it’s been a weird week for rules.
Darby’s face keeps sliding into my head—her wrapped in the sheets we shared last night, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep when she asked if we were a couple. My chest tightened when she said it, but I couldn’t shrug it off casually. Wanting her means less time for work, away from schedules and spreadsheets and controlled variables. That alone should make me uneasy.
We don’t move through the world the same way, her and me, but maybe that’s the point. Where she leaps, I calculate. Where I stall, she pushes.
I scowl at the plant and add another note to the page. I’m in the middle of threatening the hybrid with a trip to the compost pile when the greenhouse door bangs open behind me.
Darby’s voice follows immediately, bright and unrestrained. “Wow. I hope you don’t talk to your employees like that. Human resources would absolutely want a word.”
My shoulders loosen at the sound of her voice. I straighten slowly. She strides toward me between the tables and plants with a grin that could power the grow lights if I wired it up right. She looks pleased with herself, cheeks flushed from the cold, energy crackling off her.
“It’s a plant,” I say, eyeing her hands. “It doesn’t have a union.”
“Then I’ll rally the troops,” she says, widening her arms and raising them to chest level like a conductor calling to the greenhouse ivies, bushes, and trees.
She reaches me, tips onto her toes and plants a kiss on my cheek.
“Hiya.”
A contagious grin spreads across her face. Pure joy. I can’t help but soak in her energy.
