Page 2 of Marrying the Gardener (The Bachelor Brothers #3)

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Down, boy.

Crimson

Streetlights pass as the quiet interstate streaks by, home getting closer with every minute.

Even though I didn’t step foot inside Juniper’s party, I’m still exhausted over the possibility that I could have.

Several hours ago, did I feel bad that I was blowing off my “friend’s” invitation?

Yes. A little bit. Did I care enough to come any earlier than midnight?

Emphatically no.

After a full day of managing relations with my father’s clients, shopping for birthdays, adjusting my schedule to include several other invitations, and maintaining my own existence, I didn’t have the stamina.

All Juniper does at her parties is gossip and drink and stay up till two in the morning, when she tends to pass out.

Then, the next morning, she wakes up sobbing and whining and in desperate need of an Advil.

I’ve been the one who’s stuck around and babysat her more times than I care to think about.

Because, naturally, her daddy and my daddy are beeeeessst friends, so we have to be beeeeessst friends, too. Even though we have nothing in common.

That’s my lot in life.

While my father gets to have fun partaking in corporate war, I get to play dress up, paint my nails, put on makeup, and pretend I don’t know a single thing about business…while I maintain all the relationships, send the gift cards, and attend the soirées.

After all, business is boy stuff . And I wouldn’t know anything about boy stuff . It’s too complicated for a woman like me to wrap my pretty little mind around.

You know.

Like yard work and getting gas, which is also only for big, strong, smart menfolk. I’m much too frail and stupid to know how to even pop the fuel door, and I’d probably squeeze the lever at the wrong time and get gas in my eye.

You think I can run a meeting?

Don’t be ridiculous!

I only know how to survive amid impossible expectations, maintain the peace, and manipulate my way through just about anything.

So, yeah. I’d be useless at a conference table.

Men infuriate me.

And, yet, I’ve got a particularly large and flirty one in my passenger seat right this second.

“How good are you at what you do?” I ask.

The Bachelors’ gardener stretches his long, toned limbs and scans me. “Very.”

“So you’re experienced?”

“More or less.” His hazel eyes—green and brown and warm and hungry —skate across my figure, then pull away. “I can do just about anything and be just about anyone you want. What are you looking for?”

“A husband.”

His attention hits me, this time holding squarely to my face. “A…husband?” he asks.

“Yes. A husband experienced in tomfoolery, masculine bullheadedness, and acting . That’s right up your alley as an escort, isn’t it?”

His lips hang parted. Slow, he says, “…yes.”

“It’s your job to make people like you and to make things enjoyable for your clients, right?”

“I suppose so, essentially.”

“And you’re good at it?”

“Quite.”

“How much do you charge?”

He pauses, glances at my body again, wets his lips, and looks out the window. “Ten thousand per event, which can’t last more than five hours.”

Holy. Crap.

Two grand an hour . He’s amazing at his job.

Gripping the wheel, I cuss under my breath because I can’t begin to afford him with what my father allows me access to. Not even the modest savings I have squirreled away will help me out here. I could get him during a spattering of events for a week. That’s it. That’s not long enough.

He broaches, “Why do you need a fake husband?”

“Doesn’t matter.” I compose myself. “I can’t pay that kind of money for it. You live in Sunset, don’t you? I’ll take you home, and you can forget this happened in exchange for the free ride.”

Reaching, he latches his finger around a lock of my hair again, teasing the strands between his calloused pads. “I’d prefer you answer my question even if it means you drop me off on the side of the road afterward. I can find my way home, but I doubt I’ll get another chance to learn your secrets.”

“Well, we rarely get to have our preferences.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Do you want the free ride or not?”

He murmurs, “Anytime, Rose-red. Your home, or mine?”

I laugh. “Absolutely not what I mean. And I’d be very careful about pressing your proposition. One call, and Viktor will fire you.”

Letting my hair slip from his fingers, he drags his attention back to the window while a humored smile plays on his lips. “Forgive me. I thought I had permission to plead.”

“It seems there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“You’re right. I’m doing a poor job of begging.” His warm gaze flicks back to me. “Please.”

“Do I need to pull over?”

“No, thank you.”

“So you’ll behave?”

His eyes close. “If I’m making you uncomfortable, it’s not my intention, and I’ll stop. After all, making you uncomfortable certainly doesn’t help either of us.”

Uncomfortable isn’t the right word, but maybe I have a high tolerance for masculine idiocy and have been in far more uncomfortable situations.

Bracing his chin in his hand and his elbow on the door’s armrest, he peers at the landscapes racing outside the window. “I appreciate the ride home. I’ll try not to be too disappointed that the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen isn’t interested in keeping me tonight.”

Eyes rolling, I sigh, and it occurs to me that if this man isn’t lying because he thinks I have money, he’s just made ten thousand dollars off Vivia. “Why do you need to work for the Bachelors if you’ve got a steady career as an escort?”

“Gardening is a passion. This is a job.” He loosens his tie. “Why do you need to buy a husband, Ms. Nightingale? I might be willing to work out a deal with you.”

My interest piques. “What kind of deal?”

“Well,” he begins, tone indistinguishable, “the way I see it, marriage generally involves consummation. Legally, I’m not allowed to charge for such things. If you tell me why you need me, I might be willing to waive all costs. Purely for legal reasons.”

“There would be absolutely no consummating.”

He nods, peaceful. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of it, Ms. Nightingale…

” He pauses. “But if the government got involved and discovered I’d charged you for marriage ?

How could we possibly convince them there was absolutely no consummating?

And what if you change your mind concerning the level of intimacy you’d like to involve me in?

Then I’d truly be in trouble. I’m sure you understand I must protect myself. Legally.”

“I will not be changing my mind.”

“I believe you. Fully. But…the government isn’t known for being very trusting.”

Right. Sure. Okay. I’ll play along. “What do you intend to get out of this deal if you’re so willing to cut costs?”

His lips stretch in a way that sends a bolt of electricity down my spine. “Nothing. It sounds like fun.”

It sounds like he wants more chances to get down and dirty with the Nightingale heiress . Which absolutely isn’t going to happen.

As he removes his tie fully, I scan him, assessing whether or not I could take him in a fight. He’s got shoulders. And brawn. Rough hands that suggest he’s used to hard labor.

I’m not a stranger to self-defense, and I am five-foot-eleven, but he’s got several inches and at least a hundred pounds on me.

It would be tricky to defend against him. Dangerous, even.

But he’s yet to make my stomach revolt the way it does around many of the other men I’ve been unfortunate enough to deal with. My tolerance for men sickening me is certainly abnormally high, but my options right now are abysmally low.

Relying on the instinct that he’s not a threat is a chance I might have to take.

I say, “You’d be willing to sign a contract?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any proof that you’re good and worth the outrageous amount you mentioned earlier?”

He removes a business card from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, offering it to me.

I catch a glimpse of the golden lettering.

Kaleb .

So that’s his name.

“My reference is on the back. Madame D’Clancy, a former benefactor.

She can vouch for the history of my work as well as my price.

Barring that, I’m not technically supposed to break confidentiality, but you saw Vivia and me in a moment outside my control; I’m sure you can find a tactful way to discuss my merits with her.

She thinks somewhat highly of you. Your name came up quite often on this job. ”

When doesn’t the Nightingale name come up often in such circles?

I free a tight breath and gather my thoughts. “Are you available to meet with me tomorrow at The Black Swan?”

“I’ll make myself available. What time?”

“Noon.”

“I’ll be there.” He sets his card in the center console, then brushes his thumb over his lips. “Do I get any hints tonight?”

“No. Do you need a ride tomorrow?”

Soft, he smiles. “Desperately.”

My nose wrinkles.

“Sorry.” He drops his hand away from his mouth and coasts his fingers through his hair. “It’s a bad habit. I’ll curb it.”

It’s a bad habit my grandfather will appreciate more than I care to think about.

Filthy humor is what the men in my family seem to thrive upon.

I’d think it inescapable except not a single Bachelor brother appears to possess the compulsion, and throughout my entire life only they have made themselves out to be tolerable men.

“Ms. Nightingale?” Kaleb murmurs.

“What?”

The silence drags out, then—finally—he says, “I do mean my apology.”

My brow furrows.

“I don’t mean to come off as so aggressive. The last thing I want to do is disrespect you.”

Aggressive isn’t exactly what I’d call a few suggestive jokes delivered in his smooth tenor.

He is flirting . I am simply not someone who appreciates advances from anyone other than my dear, sweet, precious friend, Crisis.

If only I weren’t the husband in our relationship, she’d put on a fake mustache and help me in a heartbeat.

Alas. She is getting married in the spring, and Viktor would have some…

words to say on the matter of my trying to steal his wife.

As though she wasn’t mine first.

Keeping my eyes trained on the quiet road before us as a checkpoint to enter the city limits of Sunset comes into view, I do not accept Kaleb’s apology. Instead, I say, “Just don’t make me wait tomorrow.”

Smooth as the poisoned length of a primed blade, he murmurs, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”