Page 69 of A Forbidden Arrangement
“Get out,” Xander says, voice calm but absolute.
The man blinks. “Sir, the timing is tight, and I thought you would prefer to review the?—”
“Get out.”
The man backs toward the door so fast he nearly trips. The door slams behind him in a scramble of apologies. Silence rushes back in with the smell of soil and lemon balm. I stare at the door, then at Xander.
“You’re sure it’s okay to do that?” I ask. It comes out half a laugh, half a question.
“He works for me, not the other way around.” Xander picks up a hammer and studies a crooked shelf. “Help me with this.”
I hold one end steady while he fits a new bracket in place. We work in rhythm, hands brushing, breath mingling. He tightensthe clamp, and the silence between us hums. When we finish, the beam looks solid again.
“You’re not too bad at fixing things.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.” He huffs out a breathy laugh and wipes his hand on his pants. “Show me how to plant this without killing it.”
“You won’t kill it,” I say. “Mint refuses to mind its own business. It will take over your house if you let it.” I cup my hands around a start. “You tap the bottom to loosen the roots. You talk to it if you want to.”
“What do I say?” He leans down until my shoulder bumps his chest. Warmth seeps through my shirt.
“Something honest,” I croak, voice rough. “My grandmother always said plants know when you lie.”
“Your gardener is very pretty,” he says quietly, crouching beside me. His knee brushes mine. “Grow up nice and strong for her.”
“Smooth,” I tease, but I can’t hide the way my body reacts to him.
He watches me work for a while before stepping in to help. When our fingers brush, his hand lingers just a second too long. The air feels heavier, my pulse picking up in my chest. He’s always watching me, but this time, it’s not with that usual sharp focus. It feels slower, more deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize me.
“Did I get everything you need? I made sure to grab everything on your list,” he says, and when I turn, our faces end up a little too close. His breath brushes my cheek, low and warm, and his voice drops. “You can ask me for anything.” The words hit deeper than they should. There’s no hint of a joke in them. “You know that.”
My pulse jumps. I busy myself and set the empty cell tray aside. I can’t meet his eyes for a second. When I do, he is still there watching me.
We both know he’s not talking about garden supplies.
I stop, dirt clinging to my palms. “I’m not sure what I want.”
He studies me the way he always does, like he’s trying to see past what I’m saying. “You will.”
“I don’t want things that disappear the next morning.” My words hold more truth than I wanted to give him. More truth than I’m ready to give myself.
He moves closer, his shadow falling over me. His hand comes up, pausing midair, giving me every chance to step back. I don’t. His fingers brush my cheek, wiping away a streak of dirt. The touch is careful, almost reverent, and it hits somewhere deep I’ve tried to ignore. His thumb traces the edge of my jaw, and I lean into it before I can stop myself.
His mouth meets mine, and everything else falls away. The kiss isn’t soft; it’s hungry, a collision that steals the air from my lungs. My fingers slide up his chest, tracing the heat of his skin, the flex of muscle under my touch. When I open for him, he groans against my lips, the sound low and rough. His hands find my hips, moving me until the bench presses against the back of my thighs.
For a heartbeat, I let myself drown in it. The taste of him. The way his breath stutters when I tug the hair at the back of his neck. Every part of me saysyeswhile my brain screamscareful.
The table creaks when he lifts me onto it, mouth still on mine. I grip his shoulders, fingers digging in just to feel something solid. His skin is slick and warm, every muscle tense beneath my hands. His fingers slide up my sides, leaving fire in their wake. I can feel the restraint in every movement, the way he’s holding himself just shy of losing control.
I pull away, gasping, and the room sways as my heart bangs against my ribs as if trying to escape. He searches my face. He studies me, waiting, ready to keep going or stop.
His hands drop to his sides. “What do you want, Dahlia?”
“I…” I hesitate and meet his eyes, every nerve screaming, every instinct torn between running and reaching for him again.
He searches my face, reading me like always. His voice is rough around the edges. “Then say no.”
“No,” I whisper.
