Page 25

Which is apparently how I commit attempted tomato murder.

“You cannot dust your carpets outdoors onto my garden, Miss Ramos!”

I turn.

Oh, Goddess.

Damian Leeds stands on the other side of the fence in faded jeans and a black T-shirt stretched across his enormous chest.

His wings are out. His tail is lashing. And he is pissed.

“You are killing my heirloom tomatoes with the sheer amount of filth!”

He points. I look.

Oh. Oh dear.

His beautiful tomato plants are coated in gray dust.

“Gee, I’m sorry, Mr. Leeds.”

“You should be.”

My sympathy evaporates.

“I said I’m sorry. How about I fix it?”

I grab the hose beside the fence.

“Don't—”

I squeeze the trigger. A blast of water shoots out with enough force to strip paint. Damian leaps in front of his tomatoes.

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

I release the trigger.

Too late.

He’s soaked.

Completely.

His black shirt is plastered to his chest.

And those jeans—oh my.

They cling to him like a second skin. Apparently, the world is a lot bigger than I thought.

Damian looks down, following the direction of my gaze. Then up. His red-and-black eyes narrow.

“Are you finished?”

I swallow.

“Looking or spraying?”

His mouth twitches.