“Good luck,” he murmurs. “His bark’s worse than his bite.”
I watch him retreat, amused despite myself, then turn my attention back to the pot cradled in my arms.
I should have called, but no, I can’t do anything the easy way. Not me. I could have asked for plant advice, or a landscaping quote. Though that one would have been difficult to pull off, even for me. I rent a tiny apartment whose grounds are taken care of by management.
Instead of picking up the phone and dialing his number, I picked up the damn rose bush instead. And here I am, not a clue what excuse I’ll come up with for being here. I stride forwardwithout slowing, false bravado leading the way and clouding my thoughts.
“Whoa there.”
Rough palms close around mine, steadying the pot just as it tilts forward in my arms. I lurch, boots skidding on the packed dirt and gravel, heart punching hard against my ribs as my weight shifts.
Heat streaks up my fingers. Real, unmistakable heat.
The same lightning-bolt awareness I had when Greg shook my hand three days ago. The kind that short-circuits my train of thought so completely that for half a second I forget what I’m doing here.
“Easy,” he adds, lower this time.
I tighten my hold on the pot, stubborn reflex kicking in even though he’s already saved me from faceplanting into the pot.
“You sold me a defective plant,” I blurt out without thinking.
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, then locks it down. He eases the pot from my arms, and I let him take it but only because my fingers tingle. I suck in a shallow breath and blame the tingling on the chill in the air, though I’m plenty warm. Even my cheeks are hot.
“I assure you, the plant isn’t defective,” he says, amusement clearly twinkling in his dark eyes. “But if you’d like a replacement, I can arrange that.”
“Well then,” I stammer. “I want… um…” I look around, desperate for something that catches my eye. “I want that one.”
He follows my gaze as I point to a lone plant with green foliage. Not a flower or bud on it to be seen. Safe. And definitely not a cliché rose bush like the thorny, spindly thing I planted in class.
“That’s the only thing in the greenhouse you can’t have,” he says.
My eyes meet his and the sharp heat radiating behind his stare is immediate. My pulse jumps, and I almost flinch, but my defiant streak knows no bounds. I hold his gaze for a beat longer, cataloging the tension coiling in his posture.
“Theonlything I can’t have?” I ask as innocently as possible, even though my voice strains.
His nostrils flare as he nods, and my heart beats a little faster. Heat rises against my breastbone, and I embrace my inner courage and blurt out what I really came for.
“Then I’ll accept nothing less than a date,” I say, my skin so hot I swear steam might curl from my ears.
Greg
“Tonight. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
The words are barely out of her mouth when she turns heel and makes a beeline for the door, boots clipping across the packed earth and gravel with the confidence that assumes the answer is an automatic yes.
My attention snaps after her, then back at the hybrid. There’s work to do, samples to take, research… I glance back at Darby’s retreating back, and something inside me shifts—a quiet reordering of priorities that surprises the hell out of me.
“Darby,” I call after her.
She stops with one hand on the doorframe and turns slowly. Her brows lift, amused. Did she think I’d just let her go?
“Why wait?” I add before common sense interferes. “I’m done here.”
Which isn’t strictly true, but it’s close enough.
Her mouth curves, pleased. “It’s barely five.”
“I eat early,” I say.
