"Just a quick tour," said Daemon, his voice casual. "Sofia's right. The garden looks beautiful at night."
It was a reasonable suggestion. Innocent enough, given his landlady had suggested it.
But we both knew it was a lie.
The short walk from Sofia's front porch to the back garden felt like miles. I was hyperaware of him beside me. His height, his warmth, the way he wasn't quite touching me but may as well have been.
"So," I said as we rounded the corner of the house, "does Sofia hit you often?"
"Only when I deserve it." He stepped aside to let me enter the garden. "The first week I lived here, I made a crack about her doilies. She chased me around the living room."
I laughed, picturing it. "And yet you still live here."
"Yeah, well," he said, leading me down the path. "Some things are worth a little pain."
Focused as I was on the gorgeous man beside me, the garden took a moment to register. Sofia was right; the profusion of solar lights showed it off in a big way.
"Wow, that's a lot of garden gnomes," I said, unable to stop my snort of laughter. The small concrete figures were everywhere. Lining the paths, under trees, and clustered around a large ornamental pond, rods at the ready.
"You're not a fan?" asked Daemon, laughter in his tone. "Might be best to keep any opinions to yourself."
Surrounded by Sofia's riot of garden art, I knew I should leave. Should hustle to my car and go home to my empty apartment, my business problems, my safe, ordered life.
Instead, I heard myself ask, "So what's the chance of a nightcap?"
Daemon's eyes darkened. "Is whiskey okay?"
"Perfect."
Once inside his shrine to chintz, he poured two glasses, neat, and handed me one. Our fingers met around the glass, and for a beat neither of us moved. His fingers warm against mine, the whiskey between us, and fourteen ceramic cats watching with what I took to be blank intensity.
I stepped back first and looked around the room properly. The pink lamp. The doilies. The needlepoint sampler above the doorway that read Bless This Mess in cheerful, aggressive cross-stitch.
"I want you to know," I said, "that I've catered for troops in tents in one-hundred-degree heat with no running water, and this is still the most challenging environment I've ever faced."
His laugh came from low in his chest, the real one, not the charming one he used at events. "Sofia's very attached to her aesthetic."
"Sofia has a gift." I took a sip of whiskey and let it settle warmly in my chest. "This is good."
"Single malt. Cole gave it to me for Christmas." He leaned against the kitchen cabinets, glass in hand, watching me move around the small space. There was something in the way he did it. Not performing, not working an angle. Just watching, like he was content to do exactly that for as long as I'd allow it.
I picked up one of the ceramic cats from the shelf. A tabby, painted in alarmingly creepy detail, its smug expression suggesting it was questioning my life choices. Huh, get in line.
"I get the impression this one judges me," I said.
"That's Flossie. And I still don't feel I've reached her high standards." Daemon pushed off the cabinets and crossed the room to stand beside me. Close enough that I could feel his warmth. He took the cat from my hand, his fingers brushing mine again. Deliberate this time. "She's been here longer than I have. I'm sure Sofia uses her to screen tenants."
"And you passed?" I said, careful to keep my tone light.
"Apparently," he said, setting Flossie back on the shelf. "Though it was touch and go for the first month."
"What did you do?"
"Left one of Sofia's cast-iron pans soaking in the sink."
Nothing could have stopped my horrified gasp, my caterer's soul weeping for his landlady.
"I thought it would make it easier to clean," said Daemon, looking like he was still processing Sofia's anger.
