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The man smacks his gloved hands against his hips, glancing around him for dropped tools. His arms are tanned and toned, and his chest is broad with muscle. When he leans over to grab a small pair of pruning shears, those jeans cling to his taut ass.
Oh, god.
Wetting my lips, I shake my head to dislodge the ringing sound in my ears. No luck.
Whoisthat guy?
Behind me, the door swings open again, and another student pushes through the heavy strips of hanging plastic. I blink over my shoulder in a daze, nodding as my fellow Botany major and debate club rival, Jeremiah, peels off his sheepskin jacket in the sudden heat. Jeremiah jerks his chin up at me in return, eyes sparkling with challenge.
Here we go.
Let’s be honest: neither Jeremiah nor I would pick the other as our greenhouse placement partner. We’ve had too many vicious debates, tearing the other’s argument to shreds; ourBiology grades have come close too many times. Our strained relationship is nothing but sore spots.
But this is the Kephart greenhouse. For some things, you put your rivalries aside.
“Hey,” I say, throat still tight, as Jeremiah comes to stand by my shoulder. He’s gazing up at the canopy, at the vines trailing from tree branches and the bright flashes of songbird plumage, and he barely registers the demigod with the pruning shears. Is he blind? “Can you believe this is finally happening?”
No stammer this time, thank god. The last thing I need is for my debate club rival to sniff out my weakness.
“About time,” Jeremiah agrees. Then, eyeing me: “Think we’ll be graded on a curve for this placement?”
Ugh. Who cares?
How can he think about that stuffnow, with birds of paradise flitting overhead and the scent of damp soil in our lungs, and that—thatmanwatching us both curiously as he walks over?
The man tugs off his gloves and tucks them in the back pocket of his jeans so he can shake both our hands. From a distance, he looked roughly our age, but up close, you can tell this guy’s older. He’s built stronger than the average student, with faint lines at the corners of his green eyes, and there’s a steadiness about him that says whatever the world wants to throw in his direction, he’s seen it all before.
When his hand closes around mine, his palm is callused and dry, and a lump lodges in my throat. Sweat trickles down my spine, and the ringing sound is back in my ears, only louder.
“Hey, you two.” It’s a nice voice. Low and melodic—the kind of voice you might hear reading you bedtime stories on an insomnia app. “I’m Kai Akana, the Head Gardener here. I’ll be taking care of you for the next couple months. You must be Eden and Jeremiah?”
Jeremiah says something in response, but I just nod in a daze. The man—Kai—smiles at me kindly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Mid thirties, maybe? Hard to be sure when this man is so sun-kissed, with a deep tan and caramel streaks in his hair. He looks like the sun licked him all over.
“So, are you both excited for your placement?”
“Definitely,” Jeremiah says at once, all cool confidence.
I open my mouth to agree, but no words come. Chest tightening, I settle for another nod.
Oh, hell.
“Great,” the Head Gardener says, looking at me strangely now. That’s two direct questions I haven’t answered. “I’ll show you where to leave your things, and then I’ll give you guys the tour.”
As I trail after Jeremiah and the demigod through the leaves, my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.
Forget a stammer.
Why can’t I say a single word?
* * *
