“Peonies,” Madison continued, her eyes sweeping the glass dome above. “I’ve always loved peonies.”
Lila’s face was a steel trap, her smile plasticine. “I thought you wanted creams, champagnes, golds?”
“Well, I did,” Madison admitted without seeming at all apologetic.
“And before that, it was marigold and rose,” Lila continued.
“But now that we’re here, I’m thinking something more bold. Peony bold.”
My measuring tape zipped, snapping into its housing with a pop that echoed in the massive room. “Actually, peonies are out of season in the fall, but cabbage roses bloom to look close enough. Dahlias would make a good option too, if you really want to go that route.”
Madison’s brows quirked, but her smile was a little too enthusiastic. She extended her hand, her eyes dragging down my body. “And who are you?”
I took her offered hand and shook it. “Kash Bennet. I work in the greenhouse that supplies flowers for Ms. Parker’s events.”
“A gardener? Or maybe you’re a florist?” She tittered. “How modern.”
“Mr. Bennet is a gardener at Longbourne,” Lila said, her voice too tight to be considered casual, though it lilted smoothly past her lips. “If you’re interested, I’ll take you down to the greenhouse to see. It’s the largest in Manhattan, right in the middle of Greenwich Village.” She cut a look at me that said to get back to work.
“How charming,” Madison said. “Isn’t that charming, Charles?” Again, he tried to answer, and again, she kept talking. “Maybe you could educate us on what will be in season and the kinds of colors we can expect from your garden. That would be such a treat.”
I cleared my throat, nodding once, stifling a smile. “I’m sure Lila will be able to set something up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m just finishing up.”
Lila watched me as I walked back up the aisle, and I heard Madison say under her breath behind me, “I bet he knows his way around a hoe, don’t you?”
Lila made a strangled noise that should have been a laugh, but it caught in the trap of her throat, garbled and tight. I couldn’t even find it in me to be offended for myself, only poor Chuck, who’d agreed to be yoked to Madison for life.
We make our own choices and live the consequences, I thought to myself, kneeling at the front row to measure the chairs.
Lila took charge, ushering the couple toward the door, directing them to the reception hall and bar, excusing herself for one minute, promising she’d be right behind them.
The doors closed, and I made it a point not to look up despite the feel of her eyes drilling me to the floor. Slowly, deliberately, I measured and marked, seemingly absorbed in my work and unaffected by the heat rolling off of her.
“If I need your opinion, I’ll ask for it,” she said.
In my periphery, I could see her visage—white curves, arms akimbo, hands hooked on her hips, hair red as the tip of a match.
I looked over as if I hadn’t known she was standing there. “Just seemed they had a simple problem. Thought I was helping.”
“She’s already indecisive, Kash. Don’t confuse her. I’ll never be able to talk her out of cabbage roses now.”
“Why should you?”
“Because I’ll shift everything, form a new plan, build everything around it, and then she’ll change her mind again. She’s suggestive—”
A snort of a laugh escaped me as I stood, through with her looking down at me like she was. “You can say that again. I didn’t realize you’d be pimping me out, Lila.”
“Pimping you out?” she huffed, color smudging her cheeks and eyes tight. “You weren’t supposed to talk to her.”
I shrugged. “Sorry. Guess I forgot I’m just the help.”
Her eyes rolled hard enough for her to get a good look at Fifth Avenue behind her. “Oh, please. Don’t be dramatic.”
I folded my arms across my chest, tilted smile in place. “Look, if it makes your job easier, by all means, pimp me out. And I’m sorry I opened my mouth about the flowers. I really was trying to help get her off the peonies. If she’d insisted, your life mighta been hell trying to deliver.”
The simmering rage behind her eyes eased to a hot steam. “It’s not your fault,” she admitted shortly.
“Wow, that was almost an apology.”
One brow rose with the corner of her lips. “Take what you can get, Kash.” She turned on her heel and strode away.
“Always do, Lila,” I answered, watching her until the golden doors closed behind her.
* * *
LILA
I toured Madison Wendemere and poor Charles Peterson through the venue—the guy couldn’t get a word in. At least he was marrying a Wendemere. With all the money he was about to inherit, he could hide on his yacht or the golf course or the men’s club where she couldn’t nag him.
It had taken me a minute to recover, to flip on my charm and woo Madison after my outburst, which wasn’t so much an outburst as it was a tremor. I just hated for anyone to have seen it. And I hated that Kash had irritated me by butting in even if he was right and had been trying to help me out. Which made me feel like an asshole, thus making me feel wrong.
I hated being wrong too.
But by the time Madison and I said goodbye at the elevator—let’s be honest, sweet Charlie wasn’t saying anything—she pressed her cheek to mine, her eyes fond and pleased. She was sold on the venue, and the deposit check was in my possession.
As I walked back to the chapel, I smoothed my dress, then my hair, then my dress again, pulling open the door with my spine straight as an arrow to face Kash.
He sat on the steps to the dais, dark head angled to the notebook in his lap and face narrow with concentration. Long legs were spread at the knee, ankles hooked, his hand so big as it scribbled, the pencil looked comical.
God, he was massive, a brute made of muscle and sinew. He belonged to the earth he tilled, cut from stone, hair black as a raven, eyes blue as the sea. Beautiful in the rugged, wild way, unpolished and unrefined and unquestionably right just the way he was.
In that tailored shirt and slacks, he looked like an uncut gem in a glass case—confined and incongruent, as if he’d somehow been bridled. Of course, he also looked utterly brilliant, the shirt tight enough to see the rolling cords of muscles comprising his biceps down to the smattering of dark hair on his forearms, fluttering as he drew.
I made it all the way up the aisle to stop in front of him, but still, he didn’t look up. He knew I was there, and he didn’t look up, and for some reason, I wanted to kick him in the shin just to get his attention.
“One sec,” he muttered, hand moving.
I leaned in to peek at the page where he’d sketched the arbor, just as I’d described—a perfect triangle on a frame, touched with greenery and roses. Under it, he’d drawn a couple, the man square-shouldered and the woman wasp-waisted, gazing at each other, hands clasped. The proportion was just as I’d envisioned, the sprays of florals right where I’d have put them, had I drawn it. Which I couldn’t have.
He’d heard every word I’d said, stored it all in his dumb puppy brain, and drew it up with the ease of a long-practiced artist.