Any anxiety about grants and deadlines vanishes and is replaced by a surge of excitement. Naomi’s earlier teasing clangs around my mind.Mr. Complicated. Though I must admit thatthiscomplication is one I’m more than willing to embrace.
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen, debating how much enthusiasm I can show now without completely sacrificing my dignity.
Am I free later?
Absolutely. Yes.
I’d rearrange everything, wreck my plans, close the shop permanently, and join a circus if it meant another minute with Hayden. But instead of saying all that, becausefuck, Levi, some restraint is required, I type back quickly:
Me:I can probably find some time. What did you have in mind?
Hayden’s typing immediately, and my pulse thrums loudly in my ears.
Hayden:There’s someplace I want to show you.
I bite my lip to contain the ridiculous grin that’s getting far too comfortable on my face these days.
Me:Sounds great. Just say when and where.
His response is immediate.
Hayden:Pick you up outside your shop at 4:30?
Me:You’re on.
I glance toward the greenhouse, imagining Hayden waiting just outside. Him. Hades. Gods. Shadows. It’s insane. Absolutely unhinged. This is the kind of thing that should send me running for the hills…or to an expensive therapist. Instead, I’m fully prepared to dive headfirst into one of those small-town supernatural romances we all grew up watching.
Minus the sparkly vampires, thank god.
And the truth is, I don’t think I care. Confusing, overwhelming, impossible…it doesn’t matter. I just know I want to be there for him.
With him.
And that, I think, as my entire workday is reduced to a countdown, feels very, very good.
• • •
It’s late afternoonwhen Hayden pulls up, his car as sleek and understated as the man himself. Black, polished, the kind of machine that could be a luxury import…or something he’s kept immaculate since the eighties.
Knowing Hayden, either is possible.
I step outside, my heart doing that annoying staccato beat it perfected the moment I met him. He’s behind the wheel in squared aviators, hand resting lazily on the steering wheel like he wandered in from an indie film.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat, pretending my heart isn’t attempting to claw its way out of my chest.
He glances over, his mouth twitching dangerously close to a smile. “Oh, hi,” he says, shifting into drive like he hasn’t made me swoon via text for the past six hours.
We ride in comfortable silence for a while, the town blurring past the windows. The late-winter sun filters through the windshield, warm and golden, and I catch myself sneaking glances at him out of the corner of my eye.
His profile is just…unfair. All sharp lines and shadows. The cut of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the slight furrow of his brow like he’s constantly mid-thought. His dark hair, usually slicked back with effortless precision, has just enough texture to give it movement. A few rebellious strands fall forward, softening him in a way that absolutely should not make my heartbeat pick up, and yet here we are.
He shifts, just a simple adjustment in his seat, and my stomach flutters like I’m seventeen again and in the passenger seat of my first crush’s car. I should be over this.
I’m not.
He’s fucking gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that should come with a warning label. Or traffic cones. Or a seatbelt that tightens automatically when he turns his head like that. I tell myself to stop sneaking glances. I fail spectacularly. Every single time.
Hayden shifts his grip on the steering wheel, and fuck me, his hands are ridiculous. Long fingers and tendons flexing beneath warm skin. Yup. He could snap me like a twig and I’d say thank you. How is it possible for someone’s hands to bethisdistracting?
