“I didn’t want to reach out to you with false hope about that recipe, and…”
“And?Elaborate, Mr. Knight.” I haven’t been able to use his real name around him yet.
A ragged breath crawls from his chest. “And I thought you read my letter and still chose to leave.”
Something unfurls within me. No wonder he didn’t try to convince me to stay. He thinks that’s what I wanted. “I didn’t read it until yesterday.”
“And?”
“And,” I huff, “could you not have written a happy letter for once? Can you sign anythingfortunately?”
His head tilts. “No.”
Completely deadpan. Ass.
Now that same letter feels like it’s burning right through the front pocket of my apron and into the cavity holding my heart. “You only gave me that letter because you thought you were going to die. Not because you might live.” To further my point, I yank the letter from my front pocket and shove it in his direction. “I don’t want your name like this.”
A half smile. “Too late. It’s yours.”
I growl in frustration, burying the letter back in my pocket. “Then do it right.”
His smirk returns, but it’s the dangerous kind he was wearing right before he kissed me. He sticks out a hand, accepting my challenge. “Hello. My name is Verne.”
I take it. “Hello, Verne,” I say aloud for the first time. His grip tightens. “I’m Honey.”
We shake.
“I’ve been thinking about you. Your name, I mean. While I’m working on a cookbook, you could write your own gardener’s grimoire.Verne’s Ferns: A Guidebook to the Plants of Knight Manor for the Horticulturally Inclined. I mean, I know you can’t use your name in public, but, you know. Think about it.”
He stares at me with an inscrutable expression, like he can’t decide whether to laugh, kiss me, or put me to bed for the night. A part of me craves all three.
“May I show you something?” he asks abruptly.
Too focused on the static skittering across my hand, all I can do is nod and follow.
Side by side, but never touching, we round a corner into a private grove I’ve never seen before. It’s hiding expansive flower beds, and even I can tell that whatever grows here is special. No, not flower beds. My breath hitches. The beds are full of—
“Herbs, for you,” he says, watching me. “I planted this garden shortly after you arrived.”
Gingerly, I step around the beds, studying the healthy greens—and thesmells. Rosemary. Basil. Cilantro. Dill. Tarragon. Mint. Oregano. Parsley. Lavender.
Thyme. I can’t escape it. I’m not sure I want to.
An entire herb garden. For a Farewitch. A garden needs someone to use it. “You planted thismonths ago?”
“Once I tasted your food.”
“So my foodwasthat good.”Please banter back. He can’t pick now to suffocate his sarcasm and completely flip my worldview inside out.
“Youwere that good.”
All at once, dusk overtakes our little herb garden. “Verne, I don’t…” I clear my throat, trying to thwart the rising, delicious panic in my gut. Could be another allergic reaction. “I don’t think I can handle any enormous declarations at this current moment in time.”
There. I’ve said it.
Silence tremors between us.
He shakes his head, gaze as pointed as my sharpest knife. “Sweetheart, this garden is only aminusculemeasurement of how I feel about you.”
