Chapter 8
Darby
I wake alone, tangled in sheets that smell like Greg—woodsy, earthy—and last night’s marathon sex session. My body hums, slow and lazy, a little sleep deprived, and a lot sore… in all the delicious places. I blink at the ceiling, smiling to myself at how lucky I am.
A low mechanical whirr kicks on and off in the other room. I listen to the rhythm of what can only be Greg moving around in my kitchen. A strange little thrill slides down my spine.
I clutch the sheet to my chest and wrap it around my body before padding the short distance from my bedroom to the kitchen.
Greg stands at my stove in yesterday’s jeans and shirt, sleeves shoved up his forearms, hair slightly rumpled like he ran his hands through it instead of finding a mirror. Steam curls from a mug near the coffeemaker as he works a spatula through a pan of eggs.
My stomach betrays me with a loud, traitorous growl.
He glances over his shoulder, one brow lifting as his mouth twitches. “Good morning to you, too.”
I tighten the sheet reflexively, and shuffle farther into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of melted butter on fresh sourdough toast. “What are you doing?”
“Feeding you.”
My chest tightens, but I refuse to break down the gravity of a man taking the time to make me a meal. “No man has ever cooked me breakfast.”
“Seems like a grave oversight.” He glances at me again, this time taking a moment to scan my body. “And I’m not just any man, Darby.”
“Trust me,” I grin. “I noticed.”
He sets a plate down in front of me and nudges it closer. “Eat before your stomach files another complaint.”
I steal a bite with my fingers before digging forks and napkins from a drawer. I chew, suspiciously pleased. The man can cook. “Oh, my God,” I mumble through a second bite.
He smiles like that’s exactly what he was hoping for.
I’m halfway through another bite when he glances at the clock on the microwave. “I should head out. Gotta grab a change of clothes before heading to work.”
“Oh. Right,” I say, before grabbing a bite of toast. “Me, too. Not like this is work appropriate.”
I gesture vaguely at myself. He scans my body again, stopping at my bare legs and feet.
“Are you kidding? It’s giving Greek tragedy vibes.” He chuckles.
“Cute.”
He steps closer. Heat radiates off him, reminding me of all we shared last night. My pulse spikes, my body preparing itself for more as he leans in to kiss me. We bump noses. I huff a laugh. He smiles into it before we get it right. It’s awkward in a careful sort of way.
When he opens the door on his way out, a bright red piece of paper flutters in the draft.
“You’ve got mail,” he says.
I peer over his shoulder and groan. “Oh, for the love of—”
“Valentine’s Day mixer. Join your neighbors for sweets, drinks, and romantic fun in the clubhouse,” he reads aloud.
I make a face.
“You really don’t like Valentine’s.”
“It’s lazy,” I mutter. “Manufactured, heart-shaped, rose-colored romance.”
He glances at the flyer again, then back at me. “If it weren’t for Valentine’s Day, my business would dry up between New Year and St. Patrick’s.”
I tilt my head. “See? That’s exactly the point.”
“Running me out of business?” he deadpans.
“No. I mean it’s easy, generic, cheapening the real stuff.
” I shift and tug the sheet tighter across my chest. “There’s nothing wrong with flowers, chocolates, and cute little trinkets and baubles.
But who wants to be lumped in with millions of women getting the same damn thing that guys haven’t put an ounce of thought into? ”
Greg’s expression softens. “I’m not just some guy, Darby. I don’t take the easy way out of anything.”
I blink, mulling that over for a second. My chest tightens, and my damn pulse takes off like a race horse. “Are… are we a couple?”
“I’d like that,” he says quietly. “If that’s what you want.” He holds my gaze with a steady proficiency that makes my stomach flip flop. “I think you’re pretty special. There’s no one in the world like you, Darby.”
I nod, my entire body on the verge of a nervous system shutdown. For once in my life, I have no words.
Greg
By midafternoon my growing impatience gets the better of me. I hover over the hybrid with a moisture meter in my hand, muttering under my breath while I check the same three variables for the fourth time in an hour.
Temperature steady. Soil composition right where it should be. Light exposure ideal. I scribble numbers in my notebook, dark grooves carving into the paper from how hard I press the pen.
“You going to start performing or kick the bucket?” I tell the plant, crouching to peer at the stems from a new angle. “Because I’m not babysitting you for another six months. Bloom, or I throw you out and start over.”
Frustration sits heavy in my chest, and I don’t bother pretending otherwise.
Everything in the data says it should be thriving.
Instead, I’ve got glossy leaves, healthy growth, and not a single bud to show for nearly a year of work.
The wasted time gnaws at me. Results matter.
They always have. You put in the time, you do the work, you get something to show for it. That’s the rule I live by.
Except it’s been a weird week for rules.
Darby’s face keeps sliding into my head—her wrapped in the sheets we shared last night, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep when she asked if we were a couple.
My chest tightened when she said it, but I couldn’t shrug it off casually.
Wanting her means less time for work, away from schedules and spreadsheets and controlled variables. That alone should make me uneasy.
We don’t move through the world the same way, her and me, but maybe that’s the point. Where she leaps, I calculate. Where I stall, she pushes.
I scowl at the plant and add another note to the page. I’m in the middle of threatening the hybrid with a trip to the compost pile when the greenhouse door bangs open behind me.
Darby’s voice follows immediately, bright and unrestrained. “Wow. I hope you don’t talk to your employees like that. Human resources would absolutely want a word.”
My shoulders loosen at the sound of her voice. I straighten slowly. She strides toward me between the tables and plants with a grin that could power the grow lights if I wired it up right. She looks pleased with herself, cheeks flushed from the cold, energy crackling off her.
“It’s a plant,” I say, eyeing her hands. “It doesn’t have a union.”
“Then I’ll rally the troops,” she says, widening her arms and raising them to chest level like a conductor calling to the greenhouse ivies, bushes, and trees.
She reaches me, tips onto her toes and plants a kiss on my cheek.
“Hiya.”
A contagious grin spreads across her face. Pure joy. I can’t help but soak in her energy.
She swings a hip against the worktable and hops up onto the edge of it, the surface wobbling enough to send a jolt straight through my spine. I step closer without thinking, palm hovering near the pot like a worried parent with a newborn.
“What’re you doing?” she asks, peering down at the leaves.
“Taking readings,” I answer. “Again.”
She leans closer, then pauses mid-reach when my movement stills. Her arm freezes in the air before she draws it back, slow and deliberate, eyes flicking to my face. “Touching is bad, huh.”
“Not bad,” I say. “Just… unhelpful.”
“Got it.” She tilts her head. “Have you tried sweet-talking it instead of threatening its life?”
I snort despite myself. “I’m not threatening it.”
“You just told it you were going to throw it out.” She plants her hands on the table, gripping the edge.
“That’s motivation.”
“For you, or… it?” she asks. “Cause it sounds like you're traumatizing it with all your grumpy talk.”
I shoot her a look. “I’m not grumpy. I’m frustrated. All the data says it should be thriving.”
“Mmm.” She hums like she’s unconvinced and bends closer to the pot, lowering her voice. “Don’t listen to what grumpy Greg says. You’re beautiful, unique, and special. Not everyone blooms at the same time.”
She keeps one eye on me while she murmurs it, mouth twitching, clearly enjoying herself, and then adds in a softer whisper meant only for the plant, “I believe in you.”
I blink. “What are you doing?”
“Giving it a little encouragement.” She straightens with a satisfied little nod and grins up at me. “Remember this morning, you said you don’t take the easy way out.”
I hesitate. “Go on.”
“Maybe all the tricks in the book aren’t what this little guy needs.” She hops off the table, ruffling the hybrid’s leaves. “Play it some music, talk to it…” She gives me a pointed look. “Nicely. Think outside the box, babe.”
Babe?
Something warm coils low in my stomach. I’m suddenly aware of my own pulse. She watches me closely, mouth tipped into a curious grin, like she’s clocked the half-second delay before I respond.
She leans in and kisses my cheek again, quick and soft, her lips warm against skin. “You want to grab dinner later?” she asks.
I nod, my brain still stuck on the intimately close pet name and that it doesn’t bother me. “Yeah.”
“Come get me when you finish up,” she adds, already backing away. “I’m going to bother Daisy for a minute.”
She slips through the greenhouse doors toward the showroom with the same unstoppable momentum she walked in with. I stare at the spot where she disappeared, my thoughts stalling.
I glance at the plant. “You,” I mutter.
I set my pen and notebook on the table, fingers lingering on the paper before pulling away.
Talking to a plant is ridiculous. I deal in soil chemistry and light spectrums and nutrient ratios, not…
affirmations. Still, the words, think outside the box, repeat in my head in Darby’s voice, smug and annoyingly persuasive.
I clear my throat and open my mouth. But my mind goes blank and nothing comes out. What the heck do I say to a plant?
I shift my weight, glance toward the doors to make sure no one’s watching, then feel like an idiot for doing that, which only makes my shoulders tighten more.
My hands hook into my pockets and come right back out again, restless.
I rub the back of my neck, stare at the leaves, and try to pretend this is a normal part of horticultural science.
“All right,” I tell the plant quietly. “This is… purely experimental.”
I press my lips together, exhale through my nose, and try again. “You’re… healthy.” That sounds pathetic even to me, but I keep going. “Strong stems. Good color. No disease markers. That’s… good.”
What the hell am I doing?
I glance around again, then lower my voice further, like the ficus across the aisle might gossip. “You don’t… need to rush. If you’re… working on something. Internally.”
I wince. This is going terribly.
I drag a hand over my face, then force myself to square my shoulders and try one more time, slower, the way I talk to employees when something’s gone wrong and they’re waiting for direction. “You’re not failing,” I tell it. “You’re… developing. That’s progress.”
It still feels strange in my mouth, but less ridiculous than the first attempt. I nod once, like we’ve reached an understanding.
I grab the small portable speaker from the shelf under the table, plug it in, and scroll through my phone until I land on a slow instrumental jazz playlist. The first soft notes drift into the air, weaving through the hum of heaters and the drip of irrigation lines.
I slide the speaker closer to the pot and lower the volume so only it can hear. Geez, I’m losing it.
“There,” I say under my breath. “Ambience.” I hesitate, then add, quieter, “You’re… unique.”
The word sticks in my throat, irritating and familiar all at once.
I straighten, shove my hands into my jacket pockets, and head for the door, leaving the hybrid bathed in music and warm light and a ridiculous notion that Darby might be on to something.