Not caught. Whew.
After a few moments had passed and she was sure that Eldon would not return, Gretchen slipped out from under the jackets and crept toward the doors. She carefully turned the doorknob of one and eased it open a crack, peeking inside.
Greenery exploded into view—the jade of fresh leaves, the smell of turned soil, and the thick perfume of roses. Everywhere she could see brilliantly colored roses set against the thick verdant shrubs. There had
to be hundreds of roses in the greenhouse. How amazing.
Standing nearby was Hunter. He wore no jacket, and the collar of his starched shirt was loose, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He wore a pair of gardening gloves, pruning shears in one hand. His gaze was on the nearby table . . . and the note she’d asked Eldon to deliver. He hadn’t noticed her.
She’d nearly shied away at the sight of him, thinking she’d be caught, but there was something so vulnerable about his face that she couldn’t help but stare.
He continued to read the note, his gaze flicking over it over and over again, as if memorizing its contents. And his face? He had such a naked, hopeful longing in his eyes that it made her heart ache. Was that longing for . . . her? Then why did he push her away at every turn?
It didn’t make sense. None of it did.
But she did know that if she caught Hunter unawares again, he wouldn’t be pleased. So she carefully eased the door shut again, waited a moment, and then knocked loudly.
“Enter,” she heard Hunter call out.
She opened the door, a careful, easy smile on her face. “Surprise.”
He did indeed look startled to see her. The note was gone, as if put away, and he stood there in the midst of the greenery, a solitary figure. “What are you doing here?”
“Nice to see you, too. Can I come in?”
The wary look returned to his face. “Of course.”
She stepped inside the greenhouse, immediately noticing the damp, warm feel of the air and the thick scent of roses and fresh dirt. Her gaze moved over the blooming bushes, and she leaned down to scent a familiar one. “Gypsy Carnival, right?”
“Correct.”
She smiled at him and straightened. “I thought you were ordering flowers to send to me. You grow all of them?”
The wariness in his gaze reduced a little, and he gave her a quick nod. “Gardening is my hobby. I enjoy roses the most.” He gestured at the greenhouse, thick with flowers. “This is where I come to get away from things.”
That could have been accusatory, but she chose to ignore it. “It’s marvelous,” she said, moving past him and strolling down one of the aisles to look at the neatly lined-up rows of roses. “You’re really good at this—the roses look better than anything I’ve ever gotten from a florist.” She leaned down to sniff one that had an open yellow bloom the size of her hand. “Do you do anything with them?”
“Do?”
“Yes. Do you sell them to a local florist or something? You have so many.”
He walked behind her a few steps, his gaze on her instead of the roses. “I . . . sometimes I have Eldon show them. And sometimes I cross them, to try and see if I can create a new variety. But I mostly like growing them.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder and smiled. “I would have never pictured a big, strong guy like you as a gardener.”
He blushed, his gaze skidding away from her again, a sure sign that he was embarrassed. “I enjoy plants,” he said simply. “They are far easier to understand than people.”
“Most people are assholes,” she said bluntly. “I think that’s why I prefer writing. Or baking.”
His mouth twitched and, for a hopeful moment, she thought he might smile, but it was quickly contained again. “Did you come out here to discuss the merits of books versus roses?”
“Actually, no.” She straightened and turned to face him. “I wanted to come out here and ask you if you were going to come to dinner tonight.”
“I . . .” His voice died and his gaze slid away again. “Perhaps.”
“Oh, come on,” she said softly. “I can tell you all about my day. It’s been most interesting.” Her voice had taken on a soft, almost sexy purr.
The effect on Hunter was startling. His gaze flew back to her, his eyes wide, one eyebrow lifting as if to voice the question that he wouldn’t.