I laugh before I can stop it. I like him. He’s dry and sarcastic. He practically speaks my language.
He looks away quickly. Like he didn’t expect me to find him funny, but I see his lip twitch again. He wants to smile, but doesn’t often let himself.
“You live here year-round?” he asks, deflecting.
I shrug. “Until summer ends. Then I leave for college.”
He doesn’t react at first. Just nods, tossing the rosemary into the basket beside him.
“Where?”
“Stanford.”
That got a flicker of something. Surprise? Approval? Disappointment?
He quickly covers up his interest, grabbing another herb and inspecting it.
“Thyme,” I tell him as he throws it into the basket.
“Let me guess,” he says. “Botany major? Minor in pretending to be interested in charity work.”
“Close, but wrong.”
“Was I close with the botany?”
That makes me laugh. I shake my head.
“Art history, then?”
“Still wrong.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re not a math girl.”
“How do you know?”
“You’d have corrected me by now.”
I grin. “Okay, fine. Philosophy and literature. Double major. With a minor in disappointment, courtesy of my father.”
That wins me a full smile, and my stomach flutters. “Let me guess. He wants a legacy, and you give him metaphors.”
“Exactly.”
We are quiet for a moment, and the wind shifts. Carrying with it the smell of thyme and saltwater.
“Do you always work with your mom?” I ask.
He looks down at his hands before picking up another leaf from the garden.
“My mom needed work, and I came with. Figured she could use the company, and I could use the money.”
It was a simple answer. Deceptively so.
“That’s oddly noble for someone who glares at everything around here like you want to burn the place to the ground.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Very true. Is it the house? Did it personally insult you, or do you just not like rich people?”
