Page 4 of Marrying the Gardener
All Juniper does at her parties is gossip and drink and stay up till two in the morning, when she tends to pass out. Then, the next morning, she wakes up sobbing and whining and in desperate need of an Advil. I’ve been the one who’s stuck around and babysat her more times than I care to think about.
Because, naturally, her daddy and my daddy arebeeeeessstfriends, so we have to bebeeeeessstfriends, too. Even though we have nothing in common.
That’s my lot in life.
While my father gets to have fun partaking in corporate war, I get to play dress up, paint my nails, put on makeup, and pretend I don’t know a single thing about business…while I maintain all the relationships, send the gift cards, and attend the soirées.
After all,businessisboy stuff. And I wouldn’t know anything aboutboy stuff. It’s too complicated for a woman like me to wrap my pretty little mind around.
You know.
Like yard work and getting gas, which is also only for big, strong, smart menfolk. I’m much too frail and stupid to know how to even pop the fuel door, and I’d probably squeeze the lever at the wrong time and get gas in my eye.
You think I can run a meeting?
Don’t be ridiculous!
I only know how to survive amid impossible expectations, maintain the peace, and manipulate my way through just about anything.
So, yeah. I’d beuselessat a conference table.
Men infuriate me.
And, yet, I’ve got a particularly large and flirty one in my passenger seat right this second.
“How good are you at what you do?” I ask.
The Bachelors’ gardener stretches his long, toned limbs and scans me. “Very.”
“So you’re experienced?”
“More or less.” His hazel eyes—green and brown and warm andhungry—skate across my figure, then pull away. “I can do just about anything and be just about anyone you want. What are you looking for?”
“A husband.”
His attention hits me, this time holding squarely to my face. “A…husband?” he asks.
“Yes. A husband experienced in tomfoolery, masculine bullheadedness, andacting. That’s right up your alley as an escort, isn’t it?”
His lips hang parted. Slow, he says, “…yes.”
“It’s your job to make people like you and to make thingsenjoyable for your clients, right?”
“I suppose so, essentially.”
“And you’re good at it?”
“Quite.”
“How much do you charge?”
He pauses, glances at my body again, wets his lips, and looks out the window. “Ten thousand per event, which can’t last more than five hours.”
Holy. Crap.
Two grand anhour. He’samazingat his job.
Gripping the wheel, I cuss under my breath because I can’t begin to afford him with what my father allows me access to. Not even the modest savings I have squirreled away will help me out here. I could get him during a spattering of events for a week. That’s it. That’s not long enough.
