CHAPTER TWO – LILY #2
His hazel eyes dance as he leans over the counter and I catch another whiff of his peppermint scent.
It’s stronger than I’m used to from his designation, although bonding can increase the potency of a beta’s scent.
And something tells me this guy has never been short of suitors.
“And is there a Daisy and a Violet hiding back there somewhere?”
“I wish. In fact, I’d hire the Dark Lord himself as long as he had a working pair of hands and wasn’t allergic to pollen.”
He snorts and props his chin on his palm, looking up at me from under lashes that are far too lush for a man. “I don’t think Sauron is much of a flower lover, but you might convince an elf or two. Legolas would look pretty fetching with a floral crown, don’t you think?”
I snicker and make a show of fanning my face. Leo has just entered his epic fantasy phase, and I have zero problem with all the LOTR marathons he’s been choosing for movie night. “He might be good for business, but I’d be so distracted, I’d get even less work done.”
“Well, I'll keep an eye out for any unemployed orc types, then.” He gives me a flirty wink and taps the counter, where the farm’s instructions are taped to the top. “And in the meantime, can you tell me how the flower picking works?”
“Sure.” I glance past him at the fields and parking lot.
Both are relatively quiet at the moment, and I bite back a smile.
I should be praying for customers to storm the farm in droves, but this gives me an excuse to spend more time with the very attractive beta right in front of me.
“In fact, since it’s quiet right now, why don't I give you a quick tour?”
“Thanks.” His smile is dazzling. “I'd love that.”
I nod and step out from behind the counter, leading him through the front door and out onto the porch.
Creeping roses form a fragrant arch over the top of the stairs, and I nod to the stack of slightly dented metal buckets lining the wall, a pair of floral shears tied to each handle.
“So, it's pay by the bucket. The big one is for the flowers and the smaller one for the berries. No pressure, but did you want to do both?”
He grins and grabs one of each. “I want to do it all!”
I love his enthusiasm almost as much as his scent and the fizzle of excitement in my belly carries me down the stairs and towards the first row of flowers.
Each bed is marked with clear instructions on how to snip the flowers with the shears, if there are thorns or sap to watch out for, and a reminder not to disturb the bumblebees.
The attractive beta carefully studies each sign before stooping to smell the flowers.
I watch him stroke their petals, humming in appreciation, but he doesn’t pick a single bloom, and I fight another smile.
We get two kinds of customers at Rosie’s Blooms – those who squeeze as many flowers as they can into their buckets, and those who greet each blossom like they’re an old friend.
“You should come back on Saturday,” I tell him as we move at a snail’s pace through the beds, the scent of lavender, bee balm, and marigolds washing over us. “We have food trucks and a band, if that's your thing.”
“This all looks like my thing.” His face lights up even more as he reaches into the satchel looped over his body and pulls out an expensive-looking camera. “Do you mind if I take a few photos?”
“Not at all.” I take his buckets from him while he removes the camera case and fiddles with the lens. “Free publicity, right?”
He gives me another of those devastating smiles and points his camera at the nearest sign, which lists all the flowers in the bed. “So, can you tell me which is which? I only know the obvious ones.”
“Sure.” I point out each flower, adding a few tips about planting and growing them.
Most people who come to the farm are just there for a bucket of sweet-smelling color and maybe an Instagram selfie or two, but this guy seems genuinely intrigued, his camera shutter clicking furiously as he soaks it all in.
It’s pretty clear he’s more interested in shooting flowers than picking them, so I let his empty buckets dangle from my fingertips as we make our way through the garden.
“And which is your favorite?” he asks as we cross to the next row.
I click my tongue at him. “A mother loves all of her children equally, but…” We walk a little further and I point to my selection.
“Sunflowers. They’re the scraggly stalkers of the farm.
” When he cocks a brow at me, I laugh. “They’re always tracking the sun, checking out what she’s up to.
Don’t be deceived by their big, innocent faces; they’re very nosy creatures. ”
He sniggers, shooting a few more pictures, and I direct him to a shrub with white, four-petaled flowers.
“I also feel obligated to point out our state emblem. It’s called the syringa but is more commonly known as the mock orange.
You can make soap from their leaves, and the Native Americans used their tubelike stems for snowshoes, arrows, and pipes. ”
He gives me a look between his thick lashes. “Practical and pretty. That’s a winning combination.”
I smirk, but there’s no denying the growing buzz of attraction as we meander on through the beds.
He has a lean, rangy build, only a few inches taller than my own, but his shoulders are broad in his linen shirt, the sleeves rolled back to reveal corded forearms dusted in pale gold hair.
Out in the sunlight, his hair has coppery tints, and his high cheekbones have a ruddy flush that give him a boyish look.
Even in a field of flowers I can still pick out his scent, which has the tang of green apple mixed in with the freshness of peppermint.
I feel a little giddy as he takes my hand to guide me around a wheelbarrow, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the growing heat of a summer’s day.
When we reach the end of the flower part of the tour, I direct him over to the berry bushes.
At this time of year, we have an abundance of strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, and some early-ripening blueberries.
Our sweet cherries are typically the first fruit ready for harvest, but the tart huckleberries, which are a local treasure, don’t really come into their own until July.
I’m explaining all this to my curious customer as I pluck a plump strawberry and hold it out to him.
“Just like that?” he asks, looking surprised.
“We’re a clean farm,” I promise him, holding the stem and nudging the rest of the berry between his lips. “Maybe don’t eat a whole bucket without washing them first, but what harm can one do?”
He groans as he chews and swallows. “If you keep handfeeding me, I think the problem is going to be stopping at one.”
I laugh, and his eyes light up as he watches me snare my own strawberry.
We exchange a smirk as I pop it in my mouth, but then he scratches a thumb along his cheekbone and puffs out a breath.
“Ah, given we’re talking about coming clean, I should probably fess up to why I’m really here.
I was driving around scoping out locations, and I just couldn't pass this place by.
Everything about it is perfect for an ad campaign I'm shooting.
I'm Tristan Berkeley, photographer and creative director at The Zenith Agency.”
I take his proffered hand, trying not to dwell on how cool and smooth his palm feels against mine. The few men I’ve dated have had almost as many calluses as I do, although there’s still an intriguing strength in his long, slim fingers.
Get a grip, Lily. He’s here for business, not pleasure. “Okay...”
“Have you heard of Eros Chocolates?”
I roll my eyes at him. “It’s Idaho, Mr. Berkeley, not Middle Earth.”
“More's the pity,” he muses, “although squint your eyes and this lush paradise could be the Shire.”
I look around, and I don’t have to squint much to see it.
The flowers are in full bloom against a backdrop of tall grass, the bumblebees and butterflies adding pops of extra color to the sun-soaked scene.
Still, if you look a little further at the old barn and tired stables, it’s clear we’re a long way from the glamor of Hollywood. “Thanks, that’s high praise.”
He grins as he fiddles with the camera perched on his hip. “Well, the client – that’s Eros’ founder and CEO, Carlos Della, - is very particular about capturing both a pastoral feel and a romantic vibe for this campaign.”
I quirk a brow at him. “Because chocolate comes from brown cows?”
He coughs out a laugh. “Yeah, I doubt he’s ever been east of Beverley Hills, but that’s the brief. And not an easy one to fill, when most farms look like a cross between a prison and an abattoir.”
“Tell me you’re a city boy without telling me you’re a city boy.”
Tristan bites his lip. “Guilty as charged, but not from choice, believe me. I would’ve thought I’d died and gone to heaven growing up in a place like this.
Unfortunately, I’m from an old steel town, where the only thing that bloomed were the smokestacks.
” He brushes back his brown curls and gives me a determined look.
“Which is a roundabout way of me saying that I think your farm is delightful, and I’d love to use it as a backdrop for the shoot. ”
I can tell he’s being genuine, and I feel a flash of regret as I shake my head. “I appreciate that, Mr. Berkeley, but despite appearances, Rosie’s is a working farm. Scratch the pretty surface and you’ll find just as much grit, sweat, and manure as the next agribusiness.”
He blinks at me, a smile tugging at the edge of his wide mouth. “Most people would be talking the place up, telling me it’s twice as magical at sunrise.”