Chapter Five
July 30th, 2:12 p.m.
P aloma flipped the grilled cheese sandwiches, inhaling the comforting scent of melting butter and sharp cheddar. Max hunched over his tablet at her kitchen table, scrolling through photos from their nursery visit. Her leather binder rested next to him. She’d invited herself along to ensure the plants would enhance her design vision for the space. The trip had been a lot more fun than she’d expected.
How his face lit up when he talked about the different plants stirred something low in her chest. The echo of his deep laughter through the greenhouse when she’d jumped at a garden hose she’d mistaken for a snake still played on repeat. Then, there was the flex of his shoulders as he’d lifted pot after pot, showing her different options for the tricky spot under the stairs.
She’d learned more about plants in three hours than her in years of design work. But mostly, she’d learned Max’s enthusiasm was infectious, his knowledge ran deep, and the way he ran his finger along his bottom full lip when he was thinking should be illegal .
A sharp, bitter stench pulled her from her reverie. She glanced at the pan. “Shit! I did it again,” she muttered. Tendrils of smoke snuck out from the underside of the sandwiches.
“Everything okay?” Max asked, not looking away from his photos.
“Yup, everything’s great.” She slid the three grilled cheeses from the griddle, flipping the burnt sides down. They would probably taste fine. She’d added extra cheese and butter.
The afternoon sunlight slanted across the sleek leather seats of the kitchen nook, warming her thighs. She sat across from Max, setting the plates in front of them, then cracked the window that ran along the table.
“Thanks,” he said before taking a huge bite of his grilled cheese. His eyes widened, and something that might have been panic flickered across his face. He chewed and swallowed with obvious struggle. “It’s . . . interesting.”
A laugh bubbled up in her chest. “Good thing I made you two.”
He nodded, his panicked look growing. He took another bite. His commitment to the charade was impressive.
She tried hers, and bitter ash assaulted her tongue, leaving behind a chemical-like tang. “Oh, that’s disgusting.”
“Oh, come on. It’s, um, unique.”
She collapsed into the back of her chair, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Stop, please.”
His answering grin made her heart skip. “The char adds character.”
“Character is not what I’d call it.” She shook her head, still chuckling. “But speaking of character, what do you think about climbing roses? Are those possible for the garden? In yellow.”
He ran his thumb along his bottom lip, and she tracked the movement. “Oh, Golden Shower roses could work. I’ll have to install a grow light and manage humidity, but they’re put on quite a show. The blooms start tight but slowly open up, getting more and more excited until they’re completely exposed. The heady fragrance is almost too much. And once they get going, they’re absolutely insatiable. Their blooms just keep coming and coming—”
“Max!” she said between bursts of laughter.
A crease formed between his brows. “What?”
“You’re messing with me, aren’t you?” He had to be.
“No . . .”
“There’s an actual flower called the Golden Shower?”
His eyes widened and snapped shut for a split second before he snorted. “Yeah, I’ll make sure to name it Cassia fistula in case the Thompsons have the same middle school sense of humor as their interior designer,” he teased.
“Don’t give me that shit. You were totally playing it up,” she said. He tilted his head. “Come on. ‘The blooms start tight but slowly open up, getting more and more excited until they’re completely exposed.’ And ‘And once they get going, they’re absolutely insatiable.” She tilted her chin down. “‘Their blooms just keep coming and coming.’”
“What can I say? Plants are my passion.” He winked, and she didn’t think anyone but a book boyfriend could pull that move off, but Max proved her wrong. “I guess all this time playing in the dirt has given me a dirty mind.”
“I believe it. You turned a garden consultation into soft-core plant porn. I’ll never look at roses the same way again.” His answering smile lit up his whole face, and she had to look away. Opening her stuffed binders, she pulled out paint samples, saying, “After your vivid descriptions, these paint selections for the Thompsons feel a bit . . . sterile. I might swing by the paint store.”
“Do you want a second opinion? I could come with you,” he said.
She’d love it. He had a great eye. And if she was honest, she didn’t want him to leave. A warning bell rang in her head, the same one that had gone off when her ex-fiancé had suggested he manage the financial side of her business. That lull of comfort, of companionship. No. This was different. Professional. “Don’t you have another job to head to?” He’d mentioned a client in Ann Arbor.
He waved a hand. “I’ll go after. I’ve got time.”
“If you don’t mind. I’d appreciate your input, especially since the living room is where the garden will be a focal point.” She met his gaze and poked one of his uneaten grilled cheeses, “I’ll buy you a real sandwich so you don’t have to pretend to like mine.”
He pushed away his plate. “Deal.”
A gust of wind rustled through the open window, scattering crumbs and her paint samples. They reached to catch them, their hands touching, sending a tingle of awareness up her arm. She pulled back first, busying herself with gathering the swatches.
“Ready to go?” he asked, his voice softer than before.
She scooped up her purse and binder and fell in step beside him. “Lead the way, plant whisperer,” she teased, giving him a playful nudge with her elbow. “But could you possibly keep the horticultural erotica to a minimum at the paint store?”
His laugh followed her to the door, deep and genuine. “No promises. Have you heard about the sensual unfurling of the bird of paradise flowers? ”
She groaned, shoving his shoulder, pushing him out her front door. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly charming,” he corrected with another wink.
They walked side by side to his truck. She cataloged the little things, like the way his t-shirt sleeves hugged his biceps, how his fingers drummed against his thigh as he walked, that crooked smile when he caught her watching.
Damn it, she was rebuilding her career. Creating perfect spaces, knowing exactly where everything belonged. But this thing with Max—the way he made her feel, the way their work sparked off each other—it didn’t fit in any of her carefully designed boxes. She’d learned the hard way that mixing business and pleasure was the fastest way to lose both.
She’d hired him to help with the Thompson garden, not to make her question every professional boundary she’d set. Yet here she was, looking forward to picking paint colors because he’d be there. Heaven help her if he started describing more flowers.