Page 150 of The Temptation of Truth

We built the greenhouse last year, about a month or so after she moved in, and it’s become a sanctuary of sorts. It’s teemingwith flowers and foliage, vegetables and fruits, and there’s even a desk in the back where she can write.

Well, when it’s not littered with soil and propagations, anyway. Although, I guess that hasn’t stopped her. I think half the stuff she turns into her editor is handwritten and covered in dirt.

When I push through the door, she sees me immediately and rushes to turn down the music.

“You’re home early.” She smiles brightly, pressing a kiss to my lips before taking the water glasses and plate of food and setting them on a table. “How was the flight? How as the trip? Did the boys behave? Tell me all the things.”

I wrap my arms around her and kiss her again, smiling against her lips.

“I’m home on time, and the flight was fine.”

She pulls back in surprise, then checks the clock on the wall. “Oh shit. I must have lost track of time.”

“Time doesn’t exist in the greenhouse,” I tease, and she rolls her eyes. “Your uncle had to lay into Crue and Ezra for acting like idiots, but otherwise, the trip was uneventful.”

“I wish I could have come. This deadline is kicking my ass.”

I arch a brow. “Is that why you have dirt on your forehead and three new plants behind you?”

She gives me a sweet smile and bats her eyelashes. “It’s my process, baby. You have to respect the process.”

I shake my head. “Of course. I would never disrespect the process.”

She grins and kisses me again. “Anyway, want to read what I’ve got so far?”

“Absolutely. How many new ones since I last looked at it.”

Aurora scrunches up her nose in that cute way that I love and holds up a single finger. “One.”

“This deadlineiskicking your ass,” I say on a laugh, but she waves me off and takes my hand, pulling me to her dirty, plant-covered desk.

She shuffles through some papers with scribbled writing and doodles, even picking up Arthur her orchid—careful not to disturb one of his seven beautiful flowers—to look underneath him until she finds what she’s looking for.

“Got it,” she says, handing me a piece of paper. “Be gentle. It’s raw.”

I refrain from making arawjoke, but I waggle my eyebrows at her and take pleasure in the way her cheeks flush with heat. She flares her eyes then nods to the sheet of paper.

“Go on. Read it.”

I shake my head, and just like all the other times, I hold it back out to her.

“You read it to me. I like them in your voice.”

She hesitates, narrows her eyes as if she finds me ridiculous but loves it, then plucks the paper from my hand. She straightens her shoulders, clears her throat, and reads.

I wore a thousand yesterdays

buttoned tight:

wrong sleeves,

inside-out dreams,

and shoes that blistered

souls

and feet