Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Which is the look my family is going for.
The whole thing disgusts me.
Not because it isn’t beautiful. It is, obviously. For the cost, I’d expect no less, but it’s obnoxious. In that curated, restrained kind of way. A floral museum that forgot real things grow wild.
Normally, I don’t come out here very often, not unless I stop on my way down to the beach, but today, I’m here for a different reason.
I saw him . . .
Near the stone archway. Alone. Wearing a plain gray T-shirt and jeans. Even from a distance, I could see that his forearms were tan from the sun.
It looked like he was heading toward the herb garden, and well, curiosity killed the cat. I needed to get an up close look.
So here I am, stalking.
From what I can make out in the distance, he has a small paring knife in one hand and a sprig of rosemary in the other. He lifts it to his face, inspecting it. Does he think it will tell him what plant it is?
And because I’m curious—and a little reckless—I walk toward him.
He doesn’t see me at first. His focus is on the little plant in his hand. Studying.
“It’s rosemary.”
At the sound of my voice, his head turns, and his gaze meets mine. Bottomless chocolate-brown eyes, full of emotions I can’t even comprehend, stare back at me.
My words get clogged in my throat. I’m thankful I spoke before he saw me, or I’d be stumbling over my words. Instead, now I wait for him to respond.
“I know that.”
“Didn’t look that way from here,” I point out. Tact apparently isn’t my strong suit. I’ll chalk it up to nerves and not knowing how to shut up.
“This is what the help does on break.” That shuts me up. “I’d bow,” he continues, sarcasm etched in his voice, “but I might stab myself with this knife and bleed on your heirloom sage.”
“A tragedy.” I cross my arms. “We’d have to bury you under the hydrangeas. My father would insist.”
He arches a brow. “Nice to know I’d be memorialized with seasonal color.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then he cocks his head, looking me over once. At his perusal, my cheeks warm, and I’m sure I’m blushing. Hopefully, he thinks it’s from the heat, but when a smirk spreads across his face, I know I’ve been caught.
“Victoria, right?”
“Yep,” I pop the p. “But you already knew that. I told you the other day . . .”
“True.”
I tilt my head. “And you’re Lorenzo. What’s your deal?”
That earns me the twitch of a full smile. “You trying to spy on me, Little Bird?”
My heart flinches at the nickname, but I smile instead. “And pray tell, why am I a bird?”
“You watch from high above the ground.”
“Which would make you what?”
His eyes narrow. Sharp. Measured. Waiting for the insult that he thinks will roll off my lips.
It won’t. I’m not like my parents.
“So”—I step closer—“where are you from?”
He shrugs. “Everywhere. Nowhere. Pick up a map of the East Coast and then throw a dart.”
“That’s vague and suspicious. You could’ve just said Jersey.”
“Why lie?” he says, looking at me sideways. “I like disappointing people the honest way.”
I laugh before I can stop it. I like him. He’s dry and sarcastic. He practically speaks my language.
He looks away quickly. Like he didn’t expect me to find him funny, but I see his lip twitch again. He wants to smile, but doesn’t often let himself.
“You live here year-round?” he asks, deflecting.
I shrug. “Until summer ends. Then I leave for college.”
He doesn’t react at first. Just nods, tossing the rosemary into the basket beside him.
“Where?”
“Stanford.”
That got a flicker of something. Surprise? Approval? Disappointment?
He quickly covers up his interest, grabbing another herb and inspecting it.
“Thyme,” I tell him as he throws it into the basket.
“Let me guess,” he says. “Botany major? Minor in pretending to be interested in charity work.”
“Close, but wrong.”
“Was I close with the botany?”
That makes me laugh. I shake my head.
“Art history, then?”
“Still wrong.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re not a math girl.”
“How do you know?”
“You’d have corrected me by now.”
I grin. “Okay, fine. Philosophy and literature. Double major. With a minor in disappointment, courtesy of my father.”
That wins me a full smile, and my stomach flutters. “Let me guess. He wants a legacy, and you give him metaphors.”
“Exactly.”
We are quiet for a moment, and the wind shifts. Carrying with it the smell of thyme and saltwater.
“Do you always work with your mom?” I ask.
He looks down at his hands before picking up another leaf from the garden.
“My mom needed work, and I came with. Figured she could use the company, and I could use the money.”
It was a simple answer. Deceptively so.
“That’s oddly noble for someone who glares at everything around here like you want to burn the place to the ground.”