“Sorry I didn’t message,” Lake says, hiking himself up and making himself comfortable on my desk, feet not touching the floor. “Avery had a weird emergency with his garden. He has it in his head that he wants to grow the flowers for our wedding.” Lake cups the side of his mouth and stage-whispers, “I don’t think we’re getting flowers from him; he can’t even keep zucchini alive.”
Having never tried growing my own vegetables, I can’t form an opinion on whether that’s difficult or not. Though so far,according to Lake, Avery hasn’t been able to keepanyplant alive since starting his new venture.
“If you’re after someone to do your flowers, my brother Eli half owns an event company, and they handle a lot of weddings,” Sebastian pipes up.
If he’s trying to be helpful, he can stop. Last thing I need is another fucking Devlin in my life. Someone out there is laughing at me.
“Yeah?” Lake twists to give me a bright smile, and a heaviness sits in my gut. Looks like we’re going to be contacting a Devlin sibling. Customer confidentiality better be a thing. “Can I have his number?”
Sebastian flips open his wallet, and I try my best to tune that part out because fuck my life.
“Wait. You were gardening with Avery?” I ask, my brain finally catching up.Jesus Christ.Now that I’m looking closer and paying attention, I can see a dirt smudge on the side of Lake’s T-shirt, a tiny scratch on the curve of his cheekbone, and there’s actually atwigin his hair. I pride myself on my attention to detail and credit that aspect of my personality as to why I’m so damn good at my job. How did I not see any of that? Is my tunnel vision so bad right now that I’m only seeing what I want to?
A slippery slope to travel, and not one I want to stay on.
“I’m not really sure why he keeps insisting he can do it when he has a lot of plant murder on his hands. Can you arrest him for that? Maybe that’ll convince him to find a new hobby. One with fewer prickles.”
“I’ll look into it,” I promise.
Sebastian hands a card over, and Lake peers at it. “His number is on the back. Tell him I sent you; he might even be nice to you,” Sebastian says.
“As opposed to?” Lake asks, grinning.
“His usual sparkling personality.”
“He’s clearly related to you, then,” I say dryly. Colour me shocked.
“Nice.” Lake holds the card up. “Thanks.” Lifting a foot onto my knee, he glances over the paperwork scattered across my desk. He’s also sitting on some since he didn’t bother moving anything. “Are you too busy for lunch with me?” He tilts his head, guileless. Not trying to guilt-trip me for needing to work, or attempting to cajole me to put him first, or make me feel like I’m neglecting him. A far cry from past relationships. “I can just leave the food here?”
Standing abruptly, I drag Lake closer to kiss him, uncaring about our audience. A silent apology for a sin that Lake would never commit and one that I’m holding too tightly to. I need to let it go and embrace everything that he’s offering me.
By the time I lift my head, Quinn and Sebastian are gone, giving us privacy.
“As much as I love when you kiss me, I don’t think it’s good sustenance.” Lake’s stomach rumbles as if agreeing with him. “Are they? Could we live on kisses alone?”
I could happily spend the rest of my life living on the taste of him, but I don’t think it would sustain us for long. And Lake likes eating too much to give it up. “Give me five minutes to finish up and close everything down, and then let’s go home.”
Lake’s expression turns hopeful. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I have plans for this man that should wait until we’re behind closed doors and out of the public. Work can always wait; he’s more important than anything else in the world.
Chapter twelve
Lake
Idlyfiddlingwiththeblanket covering Grady and me while we watch TV doesn’t help the weird feeling sitting in the pit of my stomach. Normally I’d be fully engrossed in the weird reality shows that Grady loves so much, but I can’t help but feel like something fundamental is wrong.
Twisting my head without lifting it from where it’s resting on the arm of the couch, I look to where my feet are resting in Grady’s lap. He’s absently massaging one while he watches, eyes glued to the TV. So invested in the drama. No one would believe me if I told them. I like that it’s mostly just for us.
After a few minutes, he turns his head, like he’s sensed me watching him. “Are you still hungry?” he asks, looking like he’ll get up in a heartbeat to get me something if I say yes.
“No, I’m okay.” The remnants of our dinner are still spread across the coffee table: a chicken stir-fry with a homemade honey sauce that I’d bathe in like Pooh Bear. The same one my mum has demanded the recipe for. Grady is pure magic in the kitchen.
Grady’s hand pauses on my foot, thumb resting against my heel. “Is something wrong?”
“It feels like I should be asking you that question.”
And there it is. That guarded look. Proof that it’s not just my vivid imagination—though I’ve been hoping that’s all it is. I’ve been living on cloud nine since Grady proposed, and I hate the idea that I’m alone in that. Ignoring the fact that Grady’s enthusiasm only goes as far as the bedroom isn’t working anymore.
