Page 63 of Dr. CEO (The Doctors)

He pulls his mouth away and sweeps his hands up my sides. “I know, but I can’t—it’s been hours since I touched you like this.”

“Vincent,” I say, but it’s not an admonishment. More a cry for help.

He pauses, pressing his forehead against mine. “Tell me what the rules are.”

My heart is pounding against my sternum, trying to get out and make out with Vincent all by itself. “Not in here. Not during working hours. I’ll meet you by the lake tonight. We can go for a walk.”

He pulls in a breath like he’s trying to summon all his will and then steps back. “You’re right.” He pushes his hands into his pockets like he doesn’t trust them to be free and heads back to his chair. “Jesus. I want to drink you down like a cold glass of water.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.” I slide my laptop onto the table and take a seat. “Although it’s good to stay hydrated.” I flip open my computer. “I want to talk to you about the flower gardens.”

“Haven’t we had this conversation? Did you think about coming to Norfolk with me?”

My eyes widen. “Rules. Not here. Not now.”

“I’m asking you a question, not trying to remove your panties.”

I shift a little in my seat, acutely aware of the lace around the edge of my underwear. This guy is more than distracting. “Let’s just keep the personal stuff for after work.” If I start thinking about Norfolk and how I’m going to tell him I can’t go, I’m going to veer off course.

“If you insist,” he says.

“I do. As I said, I want to talk to you about the flower gardens. I’ve come up with something I think you’ll…tolerate.” I pull out the presentation pack from under my laptop and slide it across to him. “Please turn to page one.” I know Vincent’s not going to accept something that doesn’t make financial sense—not even if I’m a cold glass of water. Hopefully, I’ve found a compromise. “This is a plan of two-point-five hectares of land on the edge of the Crompton Estate. The gardens currently open to the public are ten hectares, so this would be about twenty-five percent of the size.”

I’m grateful he doesn’t interrupt me. He’d be in his rights to throw me out. He’s heard me go on about these gardens for weeks and weeks now, and he’s been consistent in his refusals. Kind, but consistent.

“At present this area is open field, so it would require complete redevelopment. The advantage of this plot—outlined in red on the slide—is that it abuts a small B-road.”

I’m proposing to develop the area into a series of small gardens that honor those that have been at the house for hundreds of years.

“Please turn the page to slide two.” I glance up from my computer to see if Vincent is taking this in. He’s diligently turning the page and studying the slide, and my heart inches higher in my chest. “I propose to fund the ongoing maintenance of the gardens through volunteers and ticket sales. The current gardeners at Crompton are all prepared to volunteer their spare time to create and maintain the garden. In fact we think there will be more volunteers than we actually need. Because you are concerned with the privacy and exclusivity of the estate for hotel guests, we propose to not allow visitors through the Crompton Estate, but to allow them access from the B-road just three days a week. Four days a week, the gardens will be reserved for the exclusive use of hotel guests.”

“Is the house visible from the gardens?” Vincent asks.

I’m prepared for the question. “The house is visible from a portion of the site. A row of high hedges or a decorative wall will maintain complete privacy for hotel guests.”

“But presumably if the guests are on the golf course or simply walking the grounds, visitors to the gardens would be able to see them.”

“In some areas, yes,” I admit.

“Unless we could do some more screening.”

“Hedges would be the most effective. We could screen off the entire area. But it would cost more money than I’ve budgeted.” How many people does he really think are going to have their golf game disrupted by people looking at a flower garden? I don’t say anything, but I think it as loudly as I can.

“Okay,” Vincent says. “And what about the initial cost to establish the new garden?” He flips another page in the presentation packet. “There’s a pond here, hard landscaping, lots of planting obviously.”

“Fundraising. We won’t be able to do everything at once, but we think we could get there.” The fundraising part will be difficult. But where there’s a will, there’s a way. “I also thought it would be a nice idea to take cuttings and seeds from the plants in the current gardens, to replant in the new site. A heritage garden will mirror what you’re doing with the house—taking something old and reworking it into something that works for the present day.”

He doesn’t respond, which I take as a good sign—it isn’t like he’s scoffing at my ideas or dismissing them before I have a chance to finish. So I continue my presentation and take him through the plans for the garden in detail. I go through the financials in terms of how much it will cost in upkeep and worst-case scenarios in terms of visitor numbers.

“One final thing on the last page.”

I wait for him to flip over.

“These Airstream trailers can be converted into a tea shop of sorts.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “You thought of everything.”

“Do you have any questions?” I ask.

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