Clara was my best friend. My confidant. My sister of blood and soul. Warring with a sibling seemed unnecessarily sad. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged, then he lifted a hand to touch the bouquet. “These are wasted on me. You should take them to Clara.”
“No. Leave them here. This place is in desperate need of color.” Even though the flowers were all pale shades of pink and peach and cream, at least they were warm.
“You don’t like my house?”
“Not especially.”
A grin spread across his handsome face. “What would you change?”
“Oh . . . everything. But mostly, I’d add some life. Color. Texture. You do know they make paint in actual shades besides greige, right?”
“Do they?” he teased. “I’ll be sure to tell my interior designer. I bet your home is full of life.”
“You’d hate it. There are colors everywhere. And plants. Lots and lots of plants.”
He chuckled again, draining the rest of his glass. “Do you like your job?”
“I love my job. I like working with my hands and seeing things grow under my care. It’s satisfying, seeing a flower blossom and knowing I’m the one who planted the seed.”
“How did it start? How did you become interested in gardening?” He leaned forward, his gaze fixed on me. Brody had been like that all night. When I spoke, he listened. Intently. It had been unnerving at first. Now, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from talking because his attention was addictive.
“It started at the junkyard. It was so . . . dead.”
“Like my home.”
I laughed. “Yes, but in a different shade. Dirt and rust. Everything had this reddish-orange tinge. I don’t know why I got the impulse, but I was at the grocery store one day buying a loaf of bread, and beside the checkout stand, they had this display of packets. You know, the metal stand with all the seeds?”
He shook his head. “No, but I believe you.”
“Have you ever been inside a grocery store?”
“Once or twice.”
I shook my head and laughed. “God, our lives are different. Anyway, the packets were only thirty cents, so I bought three of them. I wanted to do something to make my little world prettier. I planted the seeds in an old egg carton and prayed they’d grow.”
“You gave it life.”
“I tried.” I gave him a sad smile. “It was a hobby. Tending my plants and flowers gave me something to do. By the time I left, Lou had enough to start a greenhouse if he wanted.”
“Lou?”
“The owner of the junkyard,” I said. “He let us stay there.”
“Right. The recluse. Clara never told me his name.”
“Lou Miley. I think I only spoke to him once or twice during the years we were there. He let us be. We did the same for him. But there was a fondness there, even from a distance.”
When Clara and I had left the junkyard, I’d replanted everything I’d grown and staged it closer to his home. I’d never forget the look on Lou’s face when he spotted the pink flowers I’d left right outside his door. He gaped at them, shocked, and maybe a little bit proud.
I liked to think that he’d watered those flowers after I’d left. That he’d realized it had been the only thing I could give him as a token of my appreciation.
I’d given him the lives I’d grown as thanks for saving mine.
“Enough about that.” I waved the topic away. I didn’t think about the junkyard often or, even more rarely, the miserable years before. And tonight, I was enjoying myself too much to rehash the past.
Besides, it wasn’t like Brody actually cared. I suspected this charm was his way of humoring me. His own token of appreciation for accompanying him tonight.
“You work at a hotel,” he said.
“I do.” I nodded. “The Gallaway. It’s beautiful. Different than the hotel we were at tonight, but no less exquisite. It’s right on the coast. I get to work with the ocean waves as my soundtrack and the smell of salt and sand in the air.”
“You love your home. You love your job. What else should I know about you, Aria Saint-James?”
That maybe I don’t hate you. “One day, I’d like to have a flower shop and a greenhouse of my own. I’d like to make bouquets like that one and keep growing plants.”
It was a secret I hadn’t told anyone, not even Clara. I didn’t set many goals. I didn’t think too far into the future. Because it was too easy for dreams to be stolen. Better they stay locked away.
“I don’t know why I just told you that,” I admitted.
“Probably the champagne.”
I lifted my glass for another sip. “Probably. And tomorrow, I’ll regret confiding in the enemy.”
“I’m still the enemy?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Good.” He grinned, hopping off the counter. “Come tomorrow, there will be no more need for a truce.”
“Agreed.” The word sounded breathy as he crossed the space between us.
There was hunger in his green eyes. It had been there for hours. If he pulled a mirror from his tux pocket, I’d likely see that same desire in my own gaze. He walked closer, his gait easy and confident. Each step was a seduction, like the one and only dance we’d shared at the wedding.
Brody had held me tight, his grip on my waist firm. And he’d given me that attention, that undivided attention. The spice of his cologne filled my nose as he closed the gap. With me seated on the counter, our eyes were nearly level. Not quite. He stood a few inches over six feet, and even with my perch, he had me beat.
His beard seemed thicker in the muted light and my fingers itched to touch the strands. His hair was combed so well, it needed a good tousle.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he inched closer, pressing into the skirt of my gown.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
My heart skipped. Yes. That was the champagne talking. I didn’t care. “What if I don’t want you to kiss me?”
He leaned in close, the warmth of his breath caressing my cheek. “What if you do?”
What if I did?
I took his face in my hands, letting the scratch of his beard scrape against my palms, and I pulled his mouth down to mine.
Then I kissed him.
“Hey,” Clara said, walking into the living room.
“Shhhh.” I held up a finger from my spot on the couch. “Not so loud.”
“Headache?”
I groaned. “I’ll never drink champagne again.”
She laughed and plopped down by my feet, taking my legs and pulling them over her lap. Then she massaged the arch of a foot. “How was it?”
“Fine.” I closed my eyes and did my best to block out the image of last night. Not of the wedding.
Of Brody’s bed.
God, what the hell had I been thinking? Why? Why had I slept with him? Sex with Clara’s boss was the worst decision I’d made in years. Worse than the time I’d cut my own bangs seven years ago.
Brody was . . . irresistible. Damn him for being so. I didn’t even like him. Did I?
He’d been out cold this morning when I’d woken up early. It was the lifelong habit of a groundskeeper to rise before dawn and prune and water before hotel guests made their way outside and tripped over my hoses.