“Rose.” I’m not fluent in foreign languages, and I’m no rocket scientist, but this is a no brainer. “But why roses for Valentine’s Day and not, say, passion flowers or orchids. They’re the real libido boosters of horticulture. And that’s the whole point. Right?”
Kari mouths a warning, but my question’s legit.
Greg fidgets with a pair of gloves, then clears his throat. “Technically, roses are considered aphrodisiacs. So is jasmine, damiana, and saffron. But the rose’s association with Valentine’s Day is rooted in Greek mythology.”
The table grows quiet.
“Their colors represent levels of affection from purity to passion,” A wrinkle splinters across his forehead, and he eyes me like he’s trying to figure something out. “Even the number of roses given has meaning, from love at first sight to complete, undivided love.”
My heart flutters. He knows his stuff.
“Just so I have things straight,” I rest my elbows on the table and lace my fingers together under my chin, feeling a little impish. “How many roses does a man get if he expects a woman to put out?”
Maggie and Gabby chuckle. Kari kicks my foot under the table.
His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, and I swear the look he gives me lights a fire in my belly. “Real men don’t expect it,” he says, placing the gloves carefully on the table, “under any circumstances.”
Damn, he’s good.
Greg
The question itself is ridiculous—provocative on purpose, designed to poke and see what happens. I should shut things down, but surprise flickers across Darby’s face. She straightens slowly, the impish tilt of her mouth deepening. “Well,” she says, “that was… refreshingly responsible.
“Try not to sound so disappointed.”
She lets out a soft laugh that shouldn’t affect me at all, but it does.
I shift my weight, forcing my attention back to the row of half-filled pots in front of us, because lingering on the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles is a slippery slope if I want to keep my footing.
“Roots down first. Pack the soil loosely. You want airflow, not concrete.” My gaze slides back to Darby.
She peers into her pot, squints at it, then glances at me again. “So, handle the root gently or it’ll get hard?”
“Darby,” Kari says sharply, before glancing at me. “We can’t take her anywhere.”
“Amen,” one of the women says. They all collectively agree with nods and mumbled assents.
I snort before I can stop myself. Darby grins so quick and satisfied it takes me by surprise. She’s enjoying herself, and I realize I am too.
I move down the table, checking progress, offering small corrections, but my attention keeps circling back to her. She watches me out of the corner of her eye. When I stop beside her, she tilts her head.
“You hovering because I’m doing it wrong, or because you like watching me?”
“Little of both,” I say, glancing into her pot.
Her eyebrows lift, and her smile widens. “Bold.”
“You don’t strike me as the type who likes things sugar coated,” I say.
She curls her finger, so I crouch beside her.
“Salty’s more my style,” she says with a muted voice. Her gaze drops to my lips. “Any tips you’d like to give me?”
Fuck me.Absolutely, but not the kind that’s appropriate under the circumstances. I clear my throat and move on to the next person before that line of thinking gets any traction.
When the class wraps up and everyone starts gathering their coats and bags, I give final instructions, hand out care cards, and answer a flurry of last-minute questions. Darby lingers, listening to everything I say to everyone else. Our eyes meet across the table. She lifts her brow and grins.
I shake my head slowly, which only encourages her more. She picks up her plant and stops short by my side.
