Page 26 of Puck Yes

With his dark eyes, Hayes shoots me a look of disbelief. “Who craves fava beans before they work out? Who craves fava beans at all?”

I point to my chest. “This guy.”

“Seriously?”

“Some men crave potato chips. I have a thing for fava beans. Don’t judge me.”

“I will judge you for your oddball craving as much as I want.”

“Fair enough. But seriously, that garden is a major selling point. I need to check on it. When the Avengers lock you up, you’ll probably go buy some mansion in Cow Hollow.”

Hayes laughs dryly. “Yeah. Right. More like when you get the place back once they trade me.”

This guy. My heart bleeds for him. He’s on edge. “That’s not what I mean.”

He just shrugs. “But I should check on the veggies anyway. The previous tenants left a list of instructions, and it’s fuck-all confusing.”

“Eggplants are complicated. I understand,” I say solemnly.

We head to the rooftop, and I drink in the gorgeous view of the city. “I should take some more pictures from up here. It’s stunning.”

“Yeah, the views are great,” he says, dryer than usual. Then he points across the block. “You can see The Great Dane from here.”

“And vice versa.”

I spin around and head to the planters, pluck a fava bean, and pop it into my mouth while Hayes scans the gardening instructions left in the small shed, then stares at a gigantic green leaf, also known as kale.

His brow furrows. His gaze strays from the leaf to a weed, to the instructions and back again.

I’m practically holding my breath.C’mon. Connect the dots.

“What am I even staring at? Is that kale or a weed?”

And we’re getting closer. But I’m not about to tell him. “No clue. Ask Google,” I say casually.

He snaps a pic, then, presumably uploads it.

And shit. Fuck. Hell.

He wasn’t really supposed to ask the search engine. “I think it’s a weed,” I say, before he tells me the results.

“You do?”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“Google says it’s kale,” he says.

“Well, do you trust Google or me?”

“What do you know about gardening?”

A lot.“Enough,” I say.

“Enough to be dangerous,” he counters. Then, finally, he follows my breadcrumbs and says, “I’ll just ask Ivy. She loves to garden—said she got it from her grandma.”

Brilliant. I turn to hide my face and how pleased I am. “Have her come up. Check it out in person. Easier that way.”

I munch fava beans while he’s busy on his phone for a few minutes, then he looks up and asks, “Can she bring her dog?”

---