Page 31

I dust my hands on my jeans, feeling the familiar grit slide off my palms. “According to you,” I say, lifting an eyebrow, “I don’t have a type. Or a personality. Or a soul.”

Her lips part slightly.

I shrug, the sarcasm rolling out before I can stop it. “Just an overblown ego and a habit of taking advantage of innocent women, right?”

There’s a flicker in her expression—surprise, maybe even a little guilt—but she schools it fast. That’s the thing about Mia. She keeps everything under control. Tidy. Practical. Except the way she’s looking at me now isn’t tidy at all.

And I hate how much I notice. How much I want her to keep looking.

Her mouth twitches—just the tiniest movement like she’s caught between amusement and irritation. “That’s not exactly what I said.”

I arch a brow, dropping the hose nozzle to my side. “Close enough.”

She crosses her arms, the universal female sign foryou’re trying my last nerve, and plants her feet like she’s rooting herself there until I start behaving. “This isn’t the time to get defensive. We have work to do.”

I gesture lazily to the garden. “I’m working.”

“On flowers,” she deadpans.

I glance down at the wilted marigolds and thirsty soil and then back up at her. “You see weeds,” I say, “I see survivors.”

That makes her blink. It catches her off guard—and for a second, just a flicker, I think she might actually smile. But it vanishes just as fast, like she wipes it clean before I can confirm it was ever there.

She exhales, sharp and irritated. “You’re not postponing this, Jack. Putting it off won’t make it go away.”

“I don’t want it to go away,” I mutter, turning back to the hose and adjusting the spray pattern. “I wantyouto go away.”

That does it.

She lets out this noise—half scoff, half breathless fury—and then she’s moving, storming toward me like a five-foot-nothing wrecking ball in wedges and way too much determination.

“Unbelievable,” she snaps, snatching for the hose in my hand. “We’re supposed to be figuring out how to get you through this without you humiliating yourself—or me.”

I lean forward, spraying a stubborn fern near the edge of the bed, keeping my grip steady. “Sounds like a tomorrow problem.”

“You are impossible!” she insists. “It’s today. We have to discuss strategy and everything in between.”

“Not now, Mia.”

She lunges for the hose, trying to wrestle it from my hands. I hold on, amused at first—until she yanks with more force than I expected. The nozzle jerks sideways, a hard stream of cold water slicing straight across her torso.

She gasps, stumbling back as the water drenches her shirt, clinging to her like a second skin. Her hair is damp now, too, strands sticking to her flushed cheeks as she stands there, frozen, dripping.

I should apologize.

I should say something mature, maybe even remorseful.

But all I can do is stare.

Because gosh… she looks?—

Beautiful.

Annoyed. Furious. Soaked.

And beautiful.

I can’t stop my gaze from following the way the water traces down her collarbone. The soft rise and fall of her chest as she tries to regulate her breathing. The flush in her cheeks. The fire in her eyes.