Chapter 5
Darby
I walk with long, determined strides, ears perked, listening for Greg’s footsteps behind me. Relieved he’s following, but without a clue as to what I’m doing. My entire body hums, running on sheer nerve and stubborn momentum.
This is ridiculous. I flirt for sport, banter with strangers, and use humor to shield me from disappointment. But something about Greg keeps knocking my rhythm sideways. Men don’t usually rattle me. Don’t make my insides soft and gooey. Don’t make me feel vulnerable.
The first wave of butterflies hits as soon as I reach the Jeep. I stop short, catching my breath as Greg’s footsteps come to a stop behind me. That’s when the second wave hits, fast, furious, fluttering from my stomach through my chest, and catching in my throat.
What now?
“Let me help with that,” he says, reaching for the rear passenger door.
His husky voice sends a shiver down my spine. It only takes a split second to know I have to stay in charge, or my body will completely lose it. I refuse to be the kind of woman who relies on a man to make decisions for me.
I shift the pot to my hip, then pivot and reach for the passenger-side handle before my brain can talk sense into me. The door swings open with a hollow thunk, and I step aside with what I hope reads as casual authority instead of an internal melt-down fueled by damn butterflies.
“Get in,” I tell him, nodding toward the seat.
He blinks, his mouth quirking, slow and crooked, sending another wave of weak-kneed flutters through my middle. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand like he’s entertained despite himself.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The words come out amused and just respectful enough to sound like he’s teasing me. His gaze lingers for a beat longer than necessary, and a curious, warm thread of want spreads through my body—a familiarity that’s welcome and unsettling.
He ducks into the seat, folding his long legs into the cab as I hold my breath, trying to keep my nerves at bay.
As soon as he’s in, I shut the door and release my breath.
The white puffy cloud helps me refocus. I circle the back of the Jeep, throw the plant into the back, and climb into the driver’s seat.
I grip the steering wheel, jam the key into the ignition, and make the mistake of looking directly at him.
One dark brow lifts, curiosity softening his features, his gaze flicking from my face to the steering wheel and back again. I swallow and turn forward, annoyed at the heat pooling low in my belly and the faint, ridiculous thrill skittering under my ribs.
I clear my throat, grip the steering wheel a little tighter, and remind myself that this is fine. Totally fine. I asked him out. I’m in control. I’m driving.
“What’s with the lone plant?” I ask, trying to spark a normal conversation as I pull out of the parking lot.
He’s quiet for a beat, shifting in his seat. His hands slide down his thick thighs, and I make a mental note to keep my eyes on the road.
“It’s a hybrid I’m working on,” he finally says.
“A hybrid what?”
“Wekpaltlez floribunda,” he says.
“Latin again?” I glance at him. This time I crack a grin. “Weka what?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice trailing off when he turns his head toward the window.
I let the silence stretch, unsure if I’ve treaded somewhere I don’t belong. I catch him tracing the seam of his jeans with his thumb, back and forth.
Interesting.
His hand stills. “It’s a special chocolate rose variety I’ve been working on for the better part of a year.”
“Wow. That’s dedication.” Gut instinct keeps my sarcasm at bay.
I pull into the parking lot and find a spot close to my front door. “Hold that thought while I drop the plant off.” I leave the Jeep running but pause before opening my door. “Lock the doors. If a stranger knocks, do not let them in.”
He smirks, which makes my stomach somersault. I grab the plant from the back and hurry up the steps to my apartment. When I return to the car, the doors are locked. I rap on the window.
He throws his hands up and his grin spreads. “I’m not supposed to let strange women in. Orders.”
And I’m a goner. The man has a sense of humor.
Greg
I slide into the cramped booth across from her. My knee brushes the underside of the table when I shift, and I plant my boots flat on the floor, forcing myself not to crowd the space. This is why I always choose the bar or a table when given a preference.
But I’m getting the picture that this is the Darby show and I’m along for the ride. Which is a little unsettling. Out of character for me.
Darby shrugs off her coat and tucks her hair behind one ear. She scans the menu as she blows into her cupped hands. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold, her knuckles white as she clasps them tightly near her mouth. I clear my throat and drop my gaze to the drink list before she catches me staring.
“So,” she says after we get our drinks. “Tell me about yourself. And why you’ve dedicated a year to a chocolate rose.”
She squeezes a lemon wedge into her iced tea, then grabs a stack of sugar packets and shakes them vigorously before ripping the tops off all of them.
My eyes track the quickness of her fingers.
The grin she flashes when one packet explodes sugar onto the table.
The way she carefully scoops every granule into a pile by the salt and pepper shakers.
I shift, needing to move, wanting to redirect the conversation. My leg bounces once and clips the underside of the table. I still it immediately.
Her mouth twitches.
I wrap my fingers around my glass and take a slow drink, buying myself a second.
I don’t usually talk about my business with strangers.
Especially my failures. But Darby doesn’t feel like a stranger, which is crazy considering we met a few days ago.
Even so, she’s been a constant in the back of my head.
Not only is she impossible to ignore, but her bold, outspoken nature seems to gloss over something raw. A faultline, frailty? She’s too real, and again not real enough. Intriguing, perplexing, and damn desirable.
“I inherited the place from my dad,” I say, lowering my voice so the surrounding tables can’t eavesdrop.
“Green with Envy’s been in the family a long time.
Landscaping, seasonal installs, all the usual stuff.
The rose… It's my attempt at bringing in specialty plants, stuff people can’t get easily anywhere else. ”
Her eyes stay on me, steady and sharp, studying me as much as she listens. And somehow, that doesn’t bother me nearly as much as I thought it would.
“Sounds difficult if not impossible. Why chocolate?” she asks before taking a sip of her drink.
“That’s the point,” I huff a quiet breath. “Nobody else around here’s growing it.”
Her lips tilt. “You plant rebel.”
“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s called me.”
She laughs, quick and unfiltered, true to character. Something in my chest shifts at the sound.
“And the year part?” she presses.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the booth tighten around me. “Turns out crossbreeding takes patience, trial and error, and a willingness to throw out months of work when the blooms won’t come.”
I study the condensation sliding down my glass instead of her face. Giving up isn’t in my vocabulary, but some days sure feel like a failure.
“Maybe plant nerd is more accurate,” she teases. “Though my friends did refer to you as hot plant daddy.”
That causes me to chuckle. “That so?”
“Mmhmm,” she murmurs, her grin widening like she’s holding something back.
My curiosity edges into something more dangerous, but I follow the scent. My instincts tell me to slow down, redirect, change the subject—anything to keep me grounded. But I’m hard headed and don’t take to being told what to do, not even when it’s my own common sense.
I shift, this time leaning forward, more intrigued than ever.