Page 20 of Playing Dirty
My presence is required, unfortunately, and I spend the whole thing nodding along and resisting the urge to stab my eyeballs with a pen. I practically sprint out the door the second Carol says I'm no longer needed.
The stone corridors are quiet this early, just the steady sound of my footsteps on the stone. I'm whistling something low, telling myself I'm not scanning every doorway for a particular face on my way out.
I've been enjoying the back-and-forth between Margot and myself lately, even if I am trying to keep a lid on it. My focus needs to stay on the ice, and even if she didn't have a no-athletesrule, Margot Prescott does not strike me as the casual-anything sort of woman. And I don’t do serious.
Still, a bit of harmless flirting is hardly a crime, and I'll be damned if the pull isn't getting harder to ignore. I scan the reception rooms on my right while keeping an eye on the windows to my left, though I've no idea if she's even on the clock today.
But as I pass the tall window that frames the walled garden, a sudden flash of pale blue fabric snags my attention.
Margot.
I know I should keep my head down and keep moving. But the curiosity about what she's doing out there this early wins out, and I find myself turning for the garden door instead.
Outside, the garden's lush and the morning sun is already warm on the back of my neck. Margot's across the grass on a little three-rung ladder, up on her toes in a pair of high heels, stretched toward the climbing roses near the top of the stone wall.
And fuck me sideways.Her ass.
That pale blue dress is snug, highlighting every curve, and any remaining delusions aboutharmless flirtingevaporate. The only thought left in my head is the desperate urge to have her pinned firmly against the stone, my fingers tangled in her hair and that dress bunched at her hips, just to hear the specific noise she’d make while coming with my name on her lips.
I clear my throat before I'm caught gawping. "Are you raiding the estate grounds, Ace?"
"Oh!" She spins around so fast the ladder gives a dangerous little shimmy. I'm already halfway across the grass to catch her, but she steadies herself before I get there, one hand braced on the wall and the other clutching a pair of garden shears.
"Sorry, I should've said something from the doorway." I laugh, stopping a few feet back and putting my hands up.
She puffs a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. "You're fine. You just caught me off guard is all."
"So." I glance up at the blooming wall, then back to her. "They got you on the grounds crew now too?"
She laughs. "Well, they haven't talked me into the gutter maintenance yet, so there's hope for my dignity. But this isn't actually a work task." She turns back to the wall. "It's Walt's birthday. He does maintenance here."
"Walt a friend of yours?" I ask.
"Not exactly." She nips a stem from the wall. "He's just a very sweet old man, and I don't think he has much family left. So I'm organizing a little thing for him in the break room. Cake, the works."
I nod. "And the flowers are a bouquet for him?"
“Yes.” She glares at me, almost daring me to find it silly. "I know men always claim they don't care about that sort of thing, but I've never met one who wasn't a little bit delighted to be handed a bouquet."
"No, I didn't mean it like that, honestly." I shake my head. "I just think it's a really nice thing you're doing. Not everyone would."
"Oh." She pauses, her expression softening. "Well, thank you. I just need to gather a few more of these, and luckily the garden is overflowing right now. And I have the head gardener's blessing to take them, obviously."
She adds the disclaimer as if I'm planning to report her for floral theft, and I have to look away to hide the smile spreading across my face. There's a wicker basket at the foot of her ladder, already spilling over with pink roses and trailing bits of green.
"Need a hand? You looked like you were coming up a bit short for the prime candidates near the top." I gesture toward a cluster of cream roses that she’d been reaching for when I walked in.
She follows my gaze up the stone wall, chewing on her lowerlip, seemingly weighing whether or not to accept my help. The lure of the cream roses must outweigh her pride, because she takes a step down and nods.
"Actually, yes." She climbs the rest of the way down and hands me the garden shears. "I'd be very grateful."
"Consider it done." I take the shears, and head up the rungs until I reach the top. "These ones the winners, then?"
She nods, watching from the lawn with the basket on her hip. "Yes. About an inch above the node. No, too high. Down a bit. There. Right there."
I snip through the stems, the flowers coming away into my palm, and I hand them down. She takes them and slots them in among the pinks, turning the basket to inspect the angle.
"Ugh, they're justperfect." She tilts the basket into the morning light, looking pleased.
