I saw him . . .
Near the stone archway. Alone. Wearing a plain gray T-shirt and jeans. Even from a distance, I could see that his forearms were tan from the sun.
It looked like he was heading toward the herb garden, and well, curiosity killed the cat. I needed to get an up close look.
So here I am, stalking.
From what I can make out in the distance, he has a small paring knife in one hand and a sprig of rosemary in the other. He lifts it to his face, inspecting it. Does he think it will tell him what plant it is?
And because I’m curious—and a little reckless—I walk toward him.
He doesn’t see me at first. His focus is on the little plant in his hand. Studying.
“It’s rosemary.”
At the sound of my voice, his head turns, and his gaze meets mine. Bottomless chocolate-brown eyes, full of emotions I can’t even comprehend, stare back at me.
My words get clogged in my throat. I’m thankful I spoke before he saw me, or I’d be stumbling over my words. Instead, now I wait for him to respond.
“I know that.”
“Didn’t look that way from here,” I point out. Tact apparently isn’t my strong suit. I’ll chalk it up to nerves and not knowing how to shut up.
“This is what the help does on break.” That shuts me up. “I’d bow,” he continues, sarcasm etched in his voice, “but I might stab myself with this knife and bleed on your heirloom sage.”
“A tragedy.” I cross my arms. “We’d have to bury you under the hydrangeas. My father would insist.”
He arches a brow. “Nice to know I’d be memorialized with seasonal color.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then he cocks his head, looking me over once. At his perusal, my cheeks warm, and I’m sure I’m blushing. Hopefully, he thinks it’s from the heat, but when a smirk spreads across his face, I know I’ve been caught.
“Victoria, right?”
“Yep,” I pop the p. “But you already knew that. I told you the other day . . .”
“True.”
I tilt my head. “And you’re Lorenzo. What’s your deal?”
That earns me the twitch of a full smile. “You trying to spy on me, Little Bird?”
My heart flinches at the nickname, but I smile instead. “And pray tell, why am I abird?”
“You watch from high above the ground.”
“Which would make you what?”
His eyes narrow. Sharp. Measured. Waiting for the insult that he thinks will roll off my lips.
It won’t. I’m not like my parents.
“So”—I step closer—“where are you from?”
He shrugs. “Everywhere. Nowhere. Pick up a map of the East Coast and then throw a dart.”
“That’s vague and suspicious. You could’ve just said Jersey.”
“Why lie?” he says, looking at me sideways. “I like disappointing people the honest way.”
