Page 68 of A Forbidden Arrangement
I’m halfway through my favorite chorus when the door creaks open behind me.
I spin, dirt flying off my gloves.
Xander stands in the doorway like a photograph that doesn’t belong here, still in a dark suit, tie perfectly tied, and shoes tooclean for the floor. His eyes drag over the mess I’ve made. The overturned pots, the soil on my jeans, the fact that I’ve been singing like no one could hear me.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” I manage, trying not to sound mortified.
“Hmm…I am, but I could hear you singing.” His gaze lingers, soft in a way I’m not used to. “I wanted to see you.”
Heat rises up my neck and doesn’t stop until the tips of my ears are warm.
“It’s called having fun,” I say, straightening a little. “You should try it sometime.”
He steps inside, careful not to dirty his shoes. “I didn’t realize gardening required this much…chaos.”
“That’s because you’ve never done anything without a twelve-step plan and a team of people to clean up after you.” I hand him a small shovel. “Here. Experience real life.”
He hesitates, then crouches beside me. The movement pulls his suit tight across his shoulders. He stabs at the dirt once, twice, and the handle comes apart.
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “Wow. You’re terrible at this.”
“I don’t fail often.” His mouth twitches. “It’s…not so bad.”
“Give it here.” I take the trowel from him, snap it back together, and hold it out to him. “Try again. Gently.”
He follows my directions, slower this time, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The hole is crooked but passable. I set a start in his hand and guide him so he doesn’t crush the stem.
“Bradley used to say gardening was a waste of time,” I murmur.
Xander’s expression hardens. “He sounds like an idiot.”
“He didn’t like messes. My grandmother did, though. She said people who plant things aren’t afraid to start over.” I packsoil around the roots. “She saved coffee cans full of marigold seeds. Said they were hope in a tin.”
His mouth curves again. “I would have liked her.”
“She would have liked you and also told you you work too much.”
His eyes soften. “I’m starting to agree with her.”
What exactly does he mean by that? I lift a crate by the corner. It scrapes against the shelf. “Can you help me with this?”
He reaches for the far side. The crate is heavier than it looks. When he lifts it, muscle moves under the thin cotton of his shirt, and my stomach drops. His sleeves are still rolled down. The cuffs carry a trace of soil now. It doesn’t seem to annoy him. That fact makes something loosen in my chest.
“Are there any more that need to be moved?” We set the crate down on the floor. He rolls his shoulders, tugging at his cuffs, and the motion pulls the fabric tight along his forearms. Then he starts unbuttoning his shirt. The air in the greenhouse changes, thickens, and my mouth goes dry. One button, then another, until he slips it off completely. He folds it once, neat and precise, and sets it on the chair beside his jacket.
I freeze, mouth parting before I can stop it, my eyes dragging over every inch of exposed skin. Sunlight slides across his shoulders, catching on the lines of his chest and tracing down to where his abs tighten, forming that deep V that disappears beneath his waistband. Then he turns, revealing thick muscles and a set of deep back dimples.
When I don’t answer right away, he glances over his shoulder, lips pressed together like he’s fighting a smile. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He bends to grab another crate, muscles tightening as he lifts it. A vein traces his forearm, and a pale scar runs across one rib. I tell myself not to stare. I fail with such enthusiasm it might be a talent.
“Do you do this at the office too?” I clear my throat and force my eyes back to the plants. “Take your shirt off in meetings to assert dominance.”
“Only when the acquisition depends on it,” he deadpans. When I snort, he lets the corner of his mouth move. “It’s warm in here. That’s my official statement.”
His phone vibrates in his discarded jacket. He ignores it until it ends, only for it to start back up. The door opens without a knock. A man in a suit steps into the greenhouse and stops halfway.
“Sir,” the man says. He clutches a tablet like a shield. “About the Westbridge term sheet. The lawyers flagged the indemnification language and wanted your signature for the revised draft. I thought I should bring it directly to you. There is also a question about the board call at noon.”
Xander doesn’t turn. He places the crate on the ground with control that would make a surgeon proud. Then he looks over his shoulder and speaks in a voice that makes the glass itself listen.
