Page 23 of Charming Deception

My very uninteresting job at the general store and seasonal garden center, which Cole knows I held for years.

While Jameson, seated across from me, says little more than nothing.

It’s so fucking awkward.

It feels like I’m on a first date with a guy who doesn’t want to be on the date. And my brother is on the date, too, chaperoning or something.

No, worse. It’s like Cole is trying to fix us up. But not so we can date. So I can work for the man sitting across from me.

It’s a job interview.

I realize this when we reach dessert. No one really touches it except me. My brother the professional hockey player definitely doesn’t touch it. Jameson tastes it, like he wants to be polite to Chef. I enjoy every bite of it. Why not? It’s not every day that a billionaire’s personal chef cooks for me.

But then Cole does a very Cole-like thing and blurts out something that makes perfect sense to him, probably, but none to me, kind of killing my appetite. My brother has been communicationally challenged like this forever.

It goes something like this…

Cole: “You can have a job here. Gardening. If you want it.”

Me (almost choking as ganache slides down my throat and I forget how to swallow completely): “What?”

Cole: “Gardening. You love gardening, right?”

Me (still swallowing ganache and clearing my throat): “I do. Yes.”

Cole: “Jameson needs a gardener.”

At this point, I look at Jameson, but Cole speaks for him. “The job is yours if you want it.”

Jameson glances at Cole, but he doesn’t say anything. And I figure with that one look I get the picture. This job offer is Cole’s idea.

Doesn’t Jameson already have a gardener?

“Really?”

“Really,” Cole says.

Then he nudges Jameson, who remembers how to speak. “You come highly recommended.”

I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or what.

“I…”

“Whadya say, Megz?” Cole prompts when I get stuck. “You like the gardening shed.”

Yeah. I do.

Cole took me to see it before we sat down to dinner, while Jameson went into the house for a meeting with Clara.

Though “shed” is not really the word for it.

It’s a small greenhouse at the back corner of the yard that’s lush with plants, many of them tropical varieties that wouldn’t survive the harsh winters where I come from. There’s an array of gardening tools, and a cozy sitting area with cushioned chairs arranged in front of a wood-burning stove.

It’s a gardener’s dream.

I glance at Jameson, who helpfully says nothing.

“Couldn’t you see yourself happy in a place like this?” Cole presses.

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