"You have dirt on your face," she says quietly.
"So do you."
"Not new for me to have dirt on my face. You're the one who looks like she stepped out of a magazine even when she's gardening."
"I don't—"
"You do." Her thumb brushes across my cheekbone, gentle, and I stop breathing. "There. Got it."
She steps back, and the moment breaks like a soap bubble. I turn back to the garden, my face burning.
The sun is low when we finally finish, the garden transformed from chaos to something almost beautiful. The herbs stand in neat rows now, the weeds are gone, and there's a clear path of stepping stones that we uncovered beneath the overgrowth.
"Not bad," Cat says, surveying our work. "Grand-mère would approve."
"High praise."
"The highest." She stretches, arms above her head, and her tank top rides up to reveal a strip of tanned stomach.
What is wrong with me?
I've worked with attractive people my entire career. I keep my composure, maintain professional distance, stay in control.
But Cat isn't a colleague. Cat is here, in this house, every moment of every day, and I can't seem to stop noticing her. The way she hums when she's content. The way she talks to the plants—encouragement, mostly, with the occasional threat.
The way my stomach flips when she smiles.
"I should shower," Cat says, pulling me from my thoughts. "I'm disgusting."
"You're not—" I stop myself.
She raises an eyebrow. "Not what?"
"Nothing. Go shower."
She grins like she knows exactly what I almost said, and disappears into the house. I stay in the garden for a few more minutes, breathing deeply, trying to get myself under control.
This is nothing. Proximity, isolation, the strangeness of this whole situation. It doesn't mean anything.
It can't mean anything.
That evening, we eat dinner on the terrace—grilled vegetables and pasta, simple but delicious. Cat opens a bottle of rosé, and we watch the sun set over the lavender fields in companionable silence.
"Can I ask you something?" Cat says finally.
"You keep asking me that, and you always ask anyway."
"Force of habit." She takes a sip of wine. "Why events?"
"What?"
"Your job. Event planning. Why?"
I consider the question. No one's ever asked me that—most people assume it's obvious, or don't care enough to wonder.
"Control," I say finally. "That's the honest answer. Event planning is about controlling variables, managing expectations,creating perfect moments. Everything has a place. Everything goes according to plan."
"But things never go according to plan."
