"Seventy-two hours." I repeat it back to him like I'm confirming a hostage deadline, which, honestly, tracks.
Flynn Danger stands there on his side of the property line, a monument to order and personal grooming, and I should be annoyed. I am annoyed. The laminated packet in my hands represents everything wrong with suburban conformity, a philosophy of living that treats dandelions like war criminals and considers "whimsy" a code violation.
But.
The afternoon sun hits his jaw at an angle that turns moss-green skin into something luminous. His forearms, holding those ridiculous custom shears, are roped with muscle and traced with pale scars that catch the light like old rivers on a map. A small vein pulses at his temple, right above where his dark brow furrows into a shelf of pure disapproval.
He's furious about my grass.
He's beautiful.
These two facts coexist in my brain like oil and water, swirling around each other, refusing to mix.
"Seventy-two hours for the front lawn," he continues, apparently interpreting my silence as compliance. "The backyard is technically not visible from the street, so it falls under a separate?—"
"Separate subsection?"
"Section four, paragraph B." He taps the plasticked packet in my hands without actually touching me. His finger stops a precise two inches from the paper. "Backyard vegetation is subject to annual review, not the seventy-two-hour standard. However."
That however hangs in the air like a guillotine blade.
"However, aggressive or semi-sentient plant life falls under the hazardous flora addendum, which I drafted last spring after the Hendersons' bamboo breached three property lines simultaneously."
"You have a hazardous flora addendum."
"Laminated."
"Of course it is."
The moonvine, apparently bored with the fence, redirects its attention toward Flynn's edging shears. A tendril snakes down from the fence rail and brushes the blade. He pulls the shears away with a speed that borders on supernatural, the movement so fluid and controlled it reminds me of a nature documentary about predators.
The tendril recoils.
Smart vine.
"Look, Flynn?—"
"Danger."
"Flynn Danger, I appreciate the welcome wagon, but I've been here exactly three hours. My furniture is still in the truck. My fern drew blood twice today. I haven't eaten since a gas station granola bar at nine a.m., and I'm standing in grass up to my knees holding an HOA document while my sunflowers watch us like we're a reality show." I gesture behind me. The golden heads bob in confirmation. "Can I have, like, twenty-four hours before we discuss mulch policy?"
His mouth opens. Closes. The muscles in his jaw work through something complicated.
"The grass?—"
"Will still be here tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. Grass is famously patient, Flynn."
"It's a safety hazard. Ticks breed in?—"
"Tomorrow. Please."
He stares at me. I stare back. We hold this stare for long enough that Reginald gets bored and starts chewing on his own pot.
"Tomorrow," Flynn says finally, like the word physically costs him. "Nine a.m. I'll bring a revised timeline."
"Revised from the one you just gave me?"
"That was the preliminary timeline. The formal timeline accounts for your specific... situation." His gaze sweeps across my yard one more time. A muscle jumps beneath his left eye.
