Chapter 31
Dahlia
The phone Xander gave me only has one number programmed, his.
No apps. No contacts. Just a single name I’ll never be able to ignore.
When I walked into the greenhouse this morning, everything on the list I’d scribbled down the other day was already there.
New gloves. Bags of soil. A set of tools I could never have afforded.
Even the small Bluetooth speaker that’s now blasting my favorite band loud enough to rattle the glass.
It feels like a statement.
You want something? I’ll give it to you before you ask.
Still, I can’t stop smiling.
The greenhouse smells like sun-warmed earth and lemon balm.
Half the windowpanes are cracked. The tables wobble.
A spider has built a tiny empire between the mint and basil.
I’ve been singing at the top of my lungs, voice ragged and off-key, but I don’t care.
The sound fills every corner. For the first time in a while, I feel… normal.
I’m halfway through my favorite chorus when the door creaks open behind me.
I spin, dirt flying off my gloves.
Xander stands in the doorway like a photograph that doesn’t belong here, still in a dark suit, tie perfectly tied, and shoes too clean for the floor. His eyes drag over the mess I’ve made. The overturned pots, the soil on my jeans, the fact that I’ve been singing like no one could hear me.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” I manage, trying not to sound mortified.
“Hmm…I am, but I could hear you singing.” His gaze lingers, soft in a way I’m not used to. “I wanted to see you.”
Heat rises up my neck and doesn’t stop until the tips of my ears are warm.
“It’s called having fun,” I say, straightening a little. “You should try it sometime.”
He steps inside, careful not to dirty his shoes. “I didn’t realize gardening required this much…chaos.”
“That’s because you’ve never done anything without a twelve-step plan and a team of people to clean up after you.” I hand him a small shovel. “Here. Experience real life.”
He hesitates, then crouches beside me. The movement pulls his suit tight across his shoulders. He stabs at the dirt once, twice, and the handle comes apart.
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “Wow. You’re terrible at this.”
“I don’t fail often.” His mouth twitches. “It’s…not so bad.”
“Give it here.” I take the trowel from him, snap it back together, and hold it out to him. “Try again. Gently.”
He follows my directions, slower this time, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The hole is crooked but passable. I set a start in his hand and guide him so he doesn’t crush the stem.
“Bradley used to say gardening was a waste of time,” I murmur.
Xander’s expression hardens. “He sounds like an idiot.”
“He didn’t like messes. My grandmother did, though. She said people who plant things aren’t afraid to start over.” I pack soil around the roots. “She saved coffee cans full of marigold seeds. Said they were hope in a tin.”
His mouth curves again. “I would have liked her.”
“She would have liked you and also told you you work too much.”
His eyes soften. “I’m starting to agree with her.”
What exactly does he mean by that? I lift a crate by the corner. It scrapes against the shelf. “Can you help me with this?”
He reaches for the far side. The crate is heavier than it looks.
When he lifts it, muscle moves under the thin cotton of his shirt, and my stomach drops.
His sleeves are still rolled down. The cuffs carry a trace of soil now.
It doesn’t seem to annoy him. That fact makes something loosen in my chest.
“Are there any more that need to be moved?” We set the crate down on the floor.
He rolls his shoulders, tugging at his cuffs, and the motion pulls the fabric tight along his forearms. Then he starts unbuttoning his shirt.
The air in the greenhouse changes, thickens, and my mouth goes dry.
One button, then another, until he slips it off completely.
He folds it once, neat and precise, and sets it on the chair beside his jacket.
I freeze, mouth parting before I can stop it, my eyes dragging over every inch of exposed skin.
Sunlight slides across his shoulders, catching on the lines of his chest and tracing down to where his abs tighten, forming that deep V that disappears beneath his waistband.
Then he turns, revealing thick muscles and a set of deep back dimples.
When I don’t answer right away, he glances over his shoulder, lips pressed together like he’s fighting a smile.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. He bends to grab another crate, muscles tightening as he lifts it.
A vein traces his forearm, and a pale scar runs across one rib.
I tell myself not to stare. I fail with such enthusiasm it might be a talent.
“Do you do this at the office too?” I clear my throat and force my eyes back to the plants. “Take your shirt off in meetings to assert dominance.”
“Only when the acquisition depends on it,” he deadpans. When I snort, he lets the corner of his mouth move. “It’s warm in here. That’s my official statement.”
His phone vibrates in his discarded jacket. He ignores it until it ends, only for it to start back up. The door opens without a knock. A man in a suit steps into the greenhouse and stops halfway.
“Sir,” the man says. He clutches a tablet like a shield. “About the Westbridge term sheet. The lawyers flagged the indemnification language and wanted your signature for the revised draft. I thought I should bring it directly to you. There is also a question about the board call at noon.”
Xander doesn’t turn. He places the crate on the ground with control that would make a surgeon proud. Then he looks over his shoulder and speaks in a voice that makes the glass itself listen.
“Get out,” Xander says, voice calm but absolute.
The man blinks. “Sir, the timing is tight, and I thought you would prefer to review the—”
“Get out.”
The man backs toward the door so fast he nearly trips. The door slams behind him in a scramble of apologies. Silence rushes back in with the smell of soil and lemon balm. I stare at the door, then at Xander.
“You’re sure it’s okay to do that?” I ask. It comes out half a laugh, half a question.
“He works for me, not the other way around.” Xander picks up a hammer and studies a crooked shelf. “Help me with this.”
I hold one end steady while he fits a new bracket in place. We work in rhythm, hands brushing, breath mingling. He tightens the clamp, and the silence between us hums. When we finish, the beam looks solid again.
“You’re not too bad at fixing things.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.” He huffs out a breathy laugh and wipes his hand on his pants. “Show me how to plant this without killing it.”
“You won’t kill it,” I say. “Mint refuses to mind its own business. It will take over your house if you let it.” I cup my hands around a start. “You tap the bottom to loosen the roots. You talk to it if you want to.”
“What do I say?” He leans down until my shoulder bumps his chest. Warmth seeps through my shirt.
“Something honest,” I croak, voice rough. “My grandmother always said plants know when you lie.”
“Your gardener is very pretty,” he says quietly, crouching beside me. His knee brushes mine. “Grow up nice and strong for her.”
“Smooth,” I tease, but I can’t hide the way my body reacts to him.
He watches me work for a while before stepping in to help.
When our fingers brush, his hand lingers just a second too long.
The air feels heavier, my pulse picking up in my chest. He’s always watching me, but this time, it’s not with that usual sharp focus.
It feels slower, more deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize me.
“Did I get everything you need? I made sure to grab everything on your list,” he says, and when I turn, our faces end up a little too close.
His breath brushes my cheek, low and warm, and his voice drops.
“You can ask me for anything.” The words hit deeper than they should.
There’s no hint of a joke in them. “You know that.”
My pulse jumps. I busy myself and set the empty cell tray aside. I can’t meet his eyes for a second. When I do, he is still there watching me.
We both know he’s not talking about garden supplies.
I stop, dirt clinging to my palms. “I’m not sure what I want.”
He studies me the way he always does, like he’s trying to see past what I’m saying. “You will.”
“I don’t want things that disappear the next morning.” My words hold more truth than I wanted to give him. More truth than I’m ready to give myself.
He moves closer, his shadow falling over me.
His hand comes up, pausing midair, giving me every chance to step back.
I don’t. His fingers brush my cheek, wiping away a streak of dirt.
The touch is careful, almost reverent, and it hits somewhere deep I’ve tried to ignore.
His thumb traces the edge of my jaw, and I lean into it before I can stop myself.
His mouth meets mine, and everything else falls away.
The kiss isn’t soft; it’s hungry, a collision that steals the air from my lungs.
My fingers slide up his chest, tracing the heat of his skin, the flex of muscle under my touch.
When I open for him, he groans against my lips, the sound low and rough.
His hands find my hips, moving me until the bench presses against the back of my thighs.
For a heartbeat, I let myself drown in it. The taste of him. The way his breath stutters when I tug the hair at the back of his neck. Every part of me says yes while my brain screams careful.
The table creaks when he lifts me onto it, mouth still on mine.
I grip his shoulders, fingers digging in just to feel something solid.
His skin is slick and warm, every muscle tense beneath my hands.
His fingers slide up my sides, leaving fire in their wake.
I can feel the restraint in every movement, the way he’s holding himself just shy of losing control.
I pull away, gasping, and the room sways as my heart bangs against my ribs as if trying to escape. He searches my face. He studies me, waiting, ready to keep going or stop.
His hands drop to his sides. “What do you want, Dahlia?”
“I…” I hesitate and meet his eyes, every nerve screaming, every instinct torn between running and reaching for him again.
He searches my face, reading me like always. His voice is rough around the edges. “Then say no.”
“No,” I whisper.
He steps back right away. The heat between us shatters, leaving only the sound of our breathing.
“I don’t want to become something you regret,” he says. He reaches for his shirt, sliding it on and fastening each button. The silence stretches, thick and uneasy, until he picks up his jacket and moves toward me.
“Dahlia,” he says softly, “you’re safe here.
” His voice drops lower, almost a promise.
“No one’s going to touch you. No one’s going to hurt you.
Not while I’m breathing. Not even me.” He lingers for a moment, his hands still on the fabric, then lets go.
The warmth fades with him, leaving me standing in the quiet, unsure which part of me he’s trying to protect: my body or my heart.