Page 68 of Inside the Sun

As I move a little closer, spraying the plants, he suddenly turns toward me and says quietly, "Hey."

"Good morning," I answer politely, keeping my tone neutral and professional. I make sure not to lift my head too much, don’t want him thinking I’m even slightly interested or trying to start a conversation. Just a minimal, polite response to his greeting.

I return to spraying the yucca that’s been hit hard with spider mites.

When I get to the lavender pots, also partially infested, about seven or eight feet from where he’s sitting, I say, "I’m about to use a chemical spray. I’d recommend stepping back a dozen feet or so."

"Sure," he replies, but instead of moving away, he gets up and unexpectedly circles around, stopping just behind me.

Not good. I really wish he’d just walked off. Still, I get to work, pretending to be very focused. I avoid looking at him entirely. If someone saw us standing so close, I could be in serious trouble.

"Bugs or fungus?" he asks.

"Spider mites. They can dry out a plant fast," I say.

"I get it. My dad has a garden too. He’s fought those before. Do you ever use natural sprays, like neem oil or potassium soap?"

Still not looking at him, I answer, "Those are better suited for edible plants. And they’re definitely less effective. Thisis good old bifenthrin. These are decorative. No one’s eating them."

"Right, of course. Still weird that spider mites made it into the inner garden," he mutters. But he doesn’t seem to want to keep the topic going. He leans over his glass and takes a few sips.

While he’s distracted, I steal a quick glance his way.

He’s wearing a thin white silky tank top and pale blue-and-white jeans. His figure is stunning: narrow waist, slim hips, long, graceful legs. Still, I don’t dare look up at his face. If he caught me checking him out, he could report it to Anzo.

"Been working here long?" he asks suddenly.

"No, about four months."

"You’re doing a great job. The garden’s perfect. I love this clean, modern look," he says enthusiastically, and it actually sounds genuine. "The geometric pruning, square planters…"

Is he trying to butter me up? Make friends?

Again, I allow myself one more quick glance. We’re about seven feet apart now. He’s facing me, our eyes meet for a split second.

Wow. I wasn’t ready for how beautiful he is!

Fair, it was a very short glance, but I couldn’t find a single flaw on his face. I’d even dare say he looks more like a gorgeous omega than an alpha. Too bad I can’t catch a whiff of his pheromones to confirm it. It’s a double block. On top of his anti-Allure deodorant, my suppressant pills are doing their job too.

That one glimpse will have to be enough for now.

The bruise on his cheek stands out, though. And it doesn’t look fake. Unfortunately. If it were makeup, I’d smell it. But there’s nothing, no foundation, no powder.

The realization that this beautiful guy was beaten by somebody hits me pretty hard. A sharp mix of anger and pity. But I forcibly rein it in. Who knows what’s going on? Maybe thekid agreed to play the role realistically, and the bruise is part of the act.

Am I being paranoid?

I know agents sometimes go all in when infiltrating. Makeup, props, even injuries, to make it more convincing. But this guy? Could Anzo really go that far just to test some gardener?

Come to think of it, even one mole is one too many for the mafia. So who knows what elaborate strategies they might use to flush someone out of hiding.

"Being a gardener seems like a nice job. You get to be outside, close to nature. Relaxing," the guy sighs, watching the planters.

"Not when there’s a spider mite infestation," I reply wryly.

He lets out a soft laugh. It’s a beautiful sound, light, melodic, almost musical.

That laugh sends a pleasant chill down my spine, followed by a fleeting image I don’t need. His hand reaching toward me, fingertips brushing my arm, tickling my skin.

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