“Liar.” She stands her ground.
“Occasionally,” I say, holding back a chuckle.
“That’s better.” She steps back inside, letting the door swing closed behind her with a soft thud. “I just need one thing.”
She holds up a finger and strides back toward me. I don’t ask what she needs, but at this point, she could say anything and I wouldn’t be surprised. Her expression brightens the closer she gets. She walks right past me to the table and picks up her potted plant.
“Changed my mind,” she says, cradling the pot in her arms. “I’m keeping the plant, too.”
Of course she is, and I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if she grabbed a few more on her way out.
5
Darby
I walk with long, determined strides, ears perked, listening for Greg’s footsteps behind me. Relieved he’s following, but without a clue as to what I’m doing. My entire body hums, running on sheer nerve and stubborn momentum.
This is ridiculous. I flirt for sport, banter with strangers, and use humor to shield me from disappointment. But something about Greg keeps knocking my rhythm sideways. Men don’t usually rattle me. Don’t make my insides soft and gooey. Don’t make me feel vulnerable.
The first wave of butterflies hits as soon as I reach the Jeep. I stop short, catching my breath as Greg’s footsteps come to a stop behind me. That’s when the second wave hits, fast, furious, fluttering from my stomach through my chest, and catching in my throat.
What now?
“Let me help with that,” he says, reaching for the rear passenger door.
His husky voice sends a shiver down my spine. It only takes a split second to know I have to stay in charge, or my body willcompletely lose it. I refuse to be the kind of woman who relies on a man to make decisions for me.
I shift the pot to my hip, then pivot and reach for the passenger-side handle before my brain can talk sense into me. The door swings open with a hollow thunk, and I step aside with what I hope reads as casual authority instead of an internal melt-down fueled by damn butterflies.
“Get in,” I tell him, nodding toward the seat.
He blinks, his mouth quirking, slow and crooked, sending another wave of weak-kneed flutters through my middle. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand like he’s entertained despite himself.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The words come out amused and just respectful enough to sound like he’s teasing me. His gaze lingers for a beat longer than necessary, and a curious, warm thread of want spreads through my body—a familiarity that’s welcome and unsettling.
He ducks into the seat, folding his long legs into the cab as I hold my breath, trying to keep my nerves at bay. As soon as he’s in, I shut the door and release my breath. The white puffy cloud helps me refocus. I circle the back of the Jeep, throw the plant into the back, and climb into the driver’s seat.
I grip the steering wheel, jam the key into the ignition, and make the mistake of looking directly at him.
One dark brow lifts, curiosity softening his features, his gaze flicking from my face to the steering wheel and back again. I swallow and turn forward, annoyed at the heat pooling low in my belly and the faint, ridiculous thrill skittering under my ribs.
I clear my throat, grip the steering wheel a little tighter, and remind myself that this is fine. Totally fine. I asked him out. I’m in control. I’m driving.
“What’s with the lone plant?” I ask, trying to spark a normal conversation as I pull out of the parking lot.
He’s quiet for a beat, shifting in his seat. His hands slide down his thick thighs, and I make a mental note to keep my eyes on the road.
“It’s a hybrid I’m working on,” he finally says.
“A hybrid what?”
“Wekpaltlez floribunda,” he says.
“Latin again?” I glance at him. This time I crack a grin. “Weka what?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice trailing off when he turns his head toward the window.
