flâner
The next morning, Damnit was sunning herself in the middle of the Central Garden, snapping at anyone who dared to so much as look at her. Reggie lay in the shade a few feet away, squinting into the sun. I sipped on my coffee—brewed this morning by Wykofski in the main kitchen, so it was strong and dark—and leaned against the railing of the veranda to enjoy the peaceful morning.
“I feel like we’re always one bad day away from finding out what goose tastes like,” said a voice behind me.
The morning suddenly felt a little less peaceful.
The man from last night, Oliver, came up beside me to lean against the railing, water bottle loose in his hand. Sweaty from a run, he’d traded his Henley for a soft gray T-shirt and running shorts, though still the same dirty tennis shoes. In the daylight, his hair was even more golden than blond, and looked darker where it was damp. He’d certainly made himself at home here already.
His mouth quirked in greeting. “Not that I would ever cook the goose. Lala would kill me.”
“The goose might kill you first,” I replied.
He laughed. “I’m sure I’d taste terrible.” Then he paused to consider it. “Actually, I’ve never asked.”
“Grilled or fried?”
“Flambéed,” he decided.
“Wow, you just have to be different.”
His eyes glittered. “I know, I’m impressive.”
I tsked. “First you try to break into my cottage,” I accused, “and now you’re doing a very bad job of flirting with me. Do you always fail this badly?”
I didn’t know what came over me. Maybe it was because the air was crisp this morning, and the sun was bright, and the coy smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth made me bold, like he was just waiting for me to say something clever.
And apparently I delivered.
“This is new, actually,” he said.
“Failing or flirting?”
“Failing to flirt, honestly. I’m told I’m good at it.”
“Your mom doesn’t count,” I chided, and he threw his head back with a laugh. When was the last time I’d flirted with someone, or the last time someone flirted with me? I couldn’t remember, and the feeling thawed something otherwise numb in my chest.
“At least you won’t hold it against me,” he replied, tongue in cheek because I most certainly would, and narrowed the short space between us, so close I noticed the faded beauty mark on his bottom lip. “Or if you do, you won’t tell me, right?”
“Of course I won’t. The grudge is no fun that way.”
“I bet it’s awful, being on a gardener’s bad side.”
I cocked my head. “You tell me.”
That coy smirk bloomed into a smile. His gaze flickered across my face, from the faint scar on my chin from a fall off a dresser when I was two, to my large green eyes, to my flushed cheeks, before settling on my lips.
Bold, this early in the morning.
I cleared my throat, and he finally realized just how close we were, and eased away from me.
“I’m sorry, again, for last night,” he said. “I promise I usually don’t break into houses.”
I sipped at my coffee, pretending to be unaffected. I hoped he didn’t see the blush burning my ears. “Usually?”
“Unless I need to,” he added.
I snorted a laugh. “Noted—”
