Page 6 of Marrying the Gardener
It would be tricky to defend against him. Dangerous, even.
But he’s yet to make my stomach revolt the way it does around many of the other men I’ve been unfortunate enough to deal with. My tolerance for men sickening me is certainly abnormally high, but my options right now are abysmally low.
Relying on the instinct that he’s not a threat is a chance I might have to take.
I say, “You’d be willing to sign a contract?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any proof that you’re good and worth the outrageous amount you mentioned earlier?”
He removes a business card from the inner pocket of his suitjacket, offering it to me.
I catch a glimpse of the golden lettering.
Kaleb.
So that’s his name.
“My reference is on the back. Madame D’Clancy, a former benefactor. She can vouch for the history of my work as well as my price. Barring that, I’m not technically supposed to break confidentiality, but you saw Vivia and me in a moment outside my control; I’m sure you can find a tactful way to discuss my merits with her. She thinks somewhat highly of you. Your name came up quite often on this job.”
When doesn’t the Nightingale name come up often in such circles?
I free a tight breath and gather my thoughts. “Are you available to meet with me tomorrow at The Black Swan?”
“I’ll make myself available. What time?”
“Noon.”
“I’ll be there.” He sets his card in the center console, then brushes his thumb over his lips. “Do I get any hints tonight?”
“No. Do you need a ride tomorrow?”
Soft, he smiles. “Desperately.”
My nose wrinkles.
“Sorry.” He drops his hand away from his mouth and coasts his fingers through his hair. “It’s a bad habit. I’ll curb it.”
It’s a bad habit my grandfather will appreciate more than I care to think about. Filthy humor is what the men in my family seem to thrive upon. I’d think it inescapable except not a single Bachelor brother appears to possess the compulsion, and throughout my entire life only they have made themselves out to be tolerable men.
“Ms. Nightingale?” Kaleb murmurs.
“What?”
The silence drags out, then—finally—he says, “I do mean myapology.”
My brow furrows.
“I don’t mean to come off as so aggressive. The last thing I want to do is disrespect you.”
Aggressiveisn’t exactly what I’d call a few suggestive jokes delivered in his smooth tenor. He isflirting. I am simply not someone who appreciates advances from anyone other than my dear, sweet, precious friend, Crisis. If only I weren’t the husband in our relationship, she’d put on a fake mustache and help me in a heartbeat. Alas. She is getting married in the spring, and Viktor would have some…wordsto say on the matter of my trying to stealhiswife.
As though she wasn’t mine first.
Keeping my eyes trained on the quiet road before us as a checkpoint to enter the city limits of Sunset comes into view, I do not accept Kaleb’s apology. Instead, I say, “Just don’t make me wait tomorrow.”
Smooth as the poisoned length of a primed blade, he murmurs, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
