Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
“Sure.”
“Does he need a leash?”
“Does he look like he’s even capable of running away?”
“Fair enough,” he agreed, walking up toward me with my dog in tow. “I’m Kylo, by the way,” he said as he reached above me to take the door from me.
Kylo.
Of course he had to have a hot name too.
“Rue.”
“Nice to meet you, Rue,” he said.
I swear he was towering over me, making me crane my neck up to look at him. Up close, his cologne filled the air around me. It was a good cologne too. There were hints of leather and cigar and maybe espresso.
Whatever it was, it was perfection.
I actually took a deeper breath than necessary just to breathe it in.
It was right then, too, that I realized I was just leaning against the door, staring up at him. Like a freak.
I ducked my head before he could see me flush, then moved outside, glad for the choking humidity that made it hard to catch another scent of his cologne.
“Oh, hey,” Traeger said when we walked around to catch him coming out of the greenhouse.
“Do you mind heading back inside?” I asked. “Kylo wants to check out the greenhouses.”
“Kylo,” Traeger repeated.
“This is Traeger, my right-hand man. And the potter who makes all the pots we sell in the shop.”
“Yeah? I’ll have to pick a few out to go with my plants.”
“You have to,” I agreed, always happy to push my friend’s talents on others.
“Ope, that’s me,” Traeg said when a car door slammed. “Take your time out here,” he added, giving me an eyebrow wiggle that I prayed Kylo couldn’t see before rushing off to meet the customer.
“Do you want to come in, bud?” Kylo asked as he once again reached over my head to take the door when I started to pull it open.
“Oh, no. He hates the greenhouses. He’s not meant for the heat. He’s a lover of all things air conditioning and box fans. We’re originally from Chicago,” I explained as we dipped into the greenhouse.
It was a solid twenty degrees warmer inside, even with the windows cracked and the fans blowing.
Traeg had just watered, so humidity clung to the air; condensation dripped down the walls.
“Chicago, huh? Big change coming down here.”
“It really was. I do kind of miss the snow and a real fall,” I admitted. “But I’ve gotten surprisingly comfortable with the heat. Maybe because I spend a lot of time in the greenhouses.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Just a few years. My grandmother ran this place for a long time, but she needed to retire. So she asked me to step in and take over for her.”
“Even though you had no experience with plants?”
“Even though,” I agreed.
“Are you the only grandchild?”
“No. She had three children. They all have kids. I have two siblings.”
“Were you the favorite?”
“I think I was just the one she knew needed this.”
“Needed it,” he repeated. It wasn’t quite a question, but the way he said it invited me to elaborate.
I couldn’t tell him the truth, of course. That was too heavy for a casual conversation with a man I’d likely never see again.
“A change of pace. A start-over. And maybe just the grounding that comes with working with dirt and plants.”
“Used to put too much pressure on yourself, huh?”
That was putting it lightly.
“Something like that,” I said. “So these are just the cuttings that aren’t big enough to sell yet,” I told him. “But this other greenhouse,” I said, moving outside again with him, “is where the new shipments come in. They’re in quarantine.”
“Do plants carry communicable diseases?” he asked, opening the door for me.
“Well, sort of. But to each other, not to people or anything. Or they have bugs. And, believe me, you do not want a mealybug infestation. Or spider mites. They’re a nightmare to try to manage and could kill your plants if you don’t get a hold of it fast.”
“Good to know. These look sad,” he said, waving toward where the new plants stood stooped and wilted in their fresh pots.
“Yeah, they just came in yesterday. Plants usually do okay in transit, but they go through a little shock when they’re taken out of the dark, planted, and watered. They’ll be okay.”
“This one is badass,” he said, gesturing toward a white Syngonium with pink spots.
“Pink Confetti,” I told him. “Despite what I told you about white and pink varieties, I totally want one too.”
“Might have to come back for one. So, how often do you get shipments?”
“Oh, only once a month. It used to be less, kind of just when I needed stock, until—” I trailed off, realizing what I was about to say.
“Until?”
“Until I decided it was smart to keep new stock coming in regularly,” I lied. Convincingly, too, if I do say so myself. “So, ready to head back in?”