Page 2 of Marrying the Gardener
Honestly?
I’ve just really,reallygot athingfor redheads.
Always have.
And if Crimson stays in my future, I always will…
“Kaleb?” Vivia, the voluptuous beauty hanging on my arm tonight, is burdened with extravagant red curls…and a crippling sense of loneliness. It happens, often, in social circles as high as hers. Daddy’s Girls find themselves playing more with money than with people, so it leaves them with lots to spare in the way of purchasing my company for events.
Feeling alone in a crowd, after all, isn’t only for the middle class. And never knowing if someone likes you or your political status makes it that much worse.
Setting a lovely twining lock of red back, I murmur, “Yes, beautiful?”
She brightens—seen, heard, not quite as alone anymore. “Can we…get out of here? Maybe?” Her lashes—red—flutter, and visions of what she’s suggesting bombard me. It’s almost midnight. She’s bought my company at this summer soirée until midnight. I could, so easily, nip at her ear, whisper that fact, and explain how I don’tdowhat she’s suggesting whileon the clock. Then I could kiss her cheek and ask her to wait just a few more minutes…
But.
I won’t.
Because the seductive sway of Crimson’s hair isn’t the only thing in my brain.
She’s infected my blood vessels with everything she is, everything she does, every second I’ve ever been blessed with a glimpse of her.
I’m addicted to the way she drives her car up to the home I returned to seven years ago, when my parents died and Viktor brought me back. I’m stuck on the way she tosses her thick redwaves as she exits her vehicle. I’m entranced by the way her smile plays on her lips as she takes to the front steps in her high, high heels, which do marvelous things to her long, long legs.
She’s freckled. Just…everywhere.
Her face. Her shoulders. Her ankles. The tops of her often-bared feet.
If I’m perfectly honest with myself, I’m not interested in going any further with my work contracts unless by some miracle they’d involve finding more of the freckles on specifically Crimson’s skin.
“Sorry, beautiful,” I say, gently. “I’m not legally allowed to include those services.”
Her eyes sadden, and she strokes a nail down my tie. “It’s almost midnight.” She kisses the corner of my mouth. “I’ll make it worth your time. You can even pretend you’re paying me.”
What an odd thing to say.
I have four brothers, a new sister-in-law, and another on the way. Company is the last thing I need to pay for. The only thing my lousy parents did right was giving me built-in friends, whose care transcends years apart.
After sevenyears—afterIbailed on our family—Viktor still made finding me his first priority the moment it was safe for me to come home. He has never blamed me for leaving. He has never made me feel like less than a brother. I’m indebted to him for loving me. Still. After everything. I am indebted to him for giving me back a home that, while so deeply shadowed, is safe and mine and blossoming more and more each day.
So. I work. Like this. When I can. It’s not the millions the rest of my brothers make, but it is, every once in a while, at least a little something to cover my room and board—as well as my gardening hobby.
I have a place to go back to that is warm and kind. I don’t need to try and find that warmth inotherways anymore.
“Sorry,” I tell Vivia. “It’s almost time for me to go. Do you want to stay here, or should I walk you to your car?”
Pitiful, she accepts the walk, tries to coax me into her passenger seat, then finally leaves me on the outskirts of a mansion still gleaming with nightlife, chatter, and music. Sighing, I face the building. It’s small compared to my home, but nothing quite lives up to the excellence of the Bachelor estate. And certainly nothing compares to the gardens I’ve filled with flowers, ivies, and topiaries.
When I’m home, I’m outside.
It’s where the guilt and the worst memories don’t quite reach.
It’s where I can trick myself into feeling useful. As though tending the grounds is penitence for bailing on the only people in this world who have loved me unconditionally.
Maybe my persistent tendency to set myself apart from the rest of my family is why when Crimson Nightingale’s voice reaches me in the driveway outside this mansion, she says, “Sir? Aren’t you the Bachelors’ gardener?”
A shock goes down my spine, and I think I’m hallucinating a moment before I turn to find Crimson stepping out of her sleek red sports car.
