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Would he shove me away or throw me down on the ground and do unspeakable things to me?
Yakov doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do, so it would be a good way to get an answer to my question: Does he want me the way I want him?
I’m not ready to know the answer to that yet, which means I need a distraction. Fast.
I point robotically towards a large, raised bed of dried leaves and weeds. It stands out amongst the rest of the meticulously landscaped garden. “There’s nothing growing over there.”
I take a few more steps forward before I dare to turn around and face him again.
It’s truly unfair that he can look even better in full sun than he does under artificial lights. I’m probably oily and sweaty from being outside all morning, but Yakov has perfectly tousled dark hair and smooth skin.
I point to the garden again. “Someone should plant something there. It’s a real waste of space.”
All billionaire’s love having their landscaping critiqued, right? The way to a rich man’s heart is by judging his garden beds.
I’m worried I’ll bore him, but then I see the look in his eyes. Yakov doesn’t look towards the garden. He doesn’t need to. I can see that he knows exactly what spot I’m talking about.
“It wasn’t always empty. That was where my mother used to keep a garden. She said it got the best sun, so my father built her a garden bed there.”
“That’s sweet,” I say softly, suddenly regretting that I brought it up at all.
“Then he died and my mother moved back to Russia.”
My heart sinks. His hand is hanging loosely at his side. It would be so easy to reach out and hold it. That’s what all damaged, emotionally unavailable men want, right? Critique their landscaping, then hold their hand.
Instead, I fold my hands behind my back to fight the temptation. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was?—”
“If you want to make it less of a waste of space, go ahead,” he interrupts.
“You mean, like, plant something?”
“That’s what most people do with a garden.”
I chuckle nervously. “Most people don’t have a black thumb like I do. I’ve always wanted to have houseplants and a vegetable garden, but I kill everything I touch.”
“Maybe you needed better supplies.”
“Dirt and plants are pretty universal. I think this might be user error.” I point to myself. “I’m the problem.”
“You’re not a problem, Luna.” His eyes rake over my face. Then he looks past me to the garden bed. “Say the word and I’ll make sure you have whatever you need.”
“Okay. Um, sure. It’s not like I have a lot going on right now. Why not give gardening a try?”
He nods. “Okay.”
Okay.
I’m living in his house, I’m sleeping in his room, and now, I’m growing—probably killing—plants in his mom’s old garden. He’s letting me in.
“When you first walked up just now,” I blurt, “I actually thought maybe you were… someone else. Someone who was here to hurt me.”
“I told you you’re safe inside the fence.”
“I know. It’s just hard to be sure when I don’t know who is after me. I don’t know if it’s one person or a group of people.” I toe my shoe into the dirt. “Maybe if I had some idea of what is after me, I could do a better job of protecting myself.”
“You don’t need to protect yourself,” he snaps.
“I know that you’re protecting me, but you aren’t around all the time. Most of the time, actually,” I add softly. “I want to know what I’m up against in case?—”
