Page 24 of Dallas Rivals
“I can hear you,” he calls out again, tone sharp as barbed wire. “No need to hide. It’s not like you have a quiet voice anyway.”
Crap.
I sigh, stand up, and brush the dirt off my jeans.
“What exactly are you doing out here?”
He’s still wearing his office clothes—tailored shirt, expensive sunglasses, and not a speck of dirt on him. His hair looks clean enough to belong in a shampoo commercial, and I bet he smells incredible.
He seems like the kind of man who wears those colognes that make women forget how to think straight.
“Talking to the plants,” I say simply.
He inhales slowly, then exhales like my answer personally offends him. Hands on his hips, eyes on the sky. Classic Oliver Walker, Lord of Exasperation.
“Can you come out of there? It’ll be dark any minute.”
I weave through the rows, stepping closer until I can smell that cologne again—clean, warm, undeniably masculine.
Why do men’s scents always smell better than ours?
Someone should study that.
“Do you need something?” I ask.
“Other than wondering who talks to plants?”
So… ignoring my question. Great.
“I do,” I say. “They listen, and I—”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Oh, for the love of—does this man ever let anyone finish a sentence?
“It’s not ridiculous. You can Google it.”
He rolls his eyes, pulls his phone from his jacket pocket, and starts typing.
“Well? What does the internet say?”
“I’m not searching for that nonsense,” he mutters, thumbs flying across the screen. “I have actual messages to answer.”
When he’s done, he looks up, those unreadable eyes locking on me.
“As I was saying—it’s late. Go home.”
Just the thought of dragging myself back inside to report every detail of my day to Dad makes me want to cry.
“In a second,” I say. “I just need to finish—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, Miss Saint-Clair. The night’s dangerous, and I don’t want to deal with another accident this week.”
He’s talking about the chicken incident.
I fell off a ladder trying to rescue one from the roof, but in my defense, she looked trapped.
With a heavy sigh, I pull off my gloves and set them on the storage bench, admitting defeat.
