Page 14 of Claimed By my Father's Enemies
"We want the restaurant to be farm-forward. Local sourcing, seasonal menus. That's why we want the garden functional, not decorative."
"Good. I'll need to sit down with the chef before I finalize the planting plan. Growing season, preferred herbs, whether he wants edible flowers for plating." She makes another note. "And I'll want to test the soil pH myself. Whatever data Sycamore has is for ornamentals, not food production."
Every time she speaks, her left hand moves, punctuating ideas. When she's certain, the gestures are small and precise. When she's working something through, they widen. I track the pattern without meaning to. The way her eyes narrow on a detail. The way she pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear and itescapes again immediately. The faint sunburn across the bridge of her nose.
I'm noticing too much. I'm aware that I'm noticing too much. And I can’t seem to make it stop.
"I think I have what I need to start." She taps the iPad against her thigh. "I'll have preliminary plans within a few days."
"Good."
I start walking her back toward the parking area. The path takes us through the citrus grove, Valencia oranges glowing against dark leaves, and the scent hits warm and bright, cut with the mineral smell of dry soil.
Sienna slows. She's looking up at a branch just above her reach, one heavy orange at the end of it. She rises onto her toes, fingers stretching. The hem of her T-shirt lifts. A strip of bare skin at her waist, tanned and smooth.
My blood reroutes. Fast. Decisive. Entirely unhelpful.
She can't reach it. She goes up again, and the branch sways away from her fingers.
My feet move first. I close the distance, my arm going around her waist from behind, and I lift her. She's light. Her body presses back against my chest, the curve of her spine aligning against me.
She reaches up and plucks the orange from the branch with a small sound of satisfaction.
I lower her slowly. Feel her slide against me inch by inch, the soft give of her body registering along the entire length of mine. Her shoulder blades against my chest. Her hair close enough that I get the scent of something green and clean.
My arm is still around her waist. Her feet are on the ground. Neither of us moves. I can feel the pace of her breathing. I can feel the exact moment she decides not to step away.
"Valencia oranges are my favorite." Her voice huskier than it was a moment ago.
My mouth is near her ear. "Then we need to make sure these trees are part of the landscape design."
She exhales. The sound moves through me.
I step back. Release her. The sounds of the site fill the space between us, hammers, birdsong and the creak of scaffolding in the breeze. I can still feel the specific weight of her, the exact line of her spine where it met my chest.
We walk the rest of the way in silence.
Her truck is parked at the end of the access road. An old Ford, rust climbing the wheel wells, the bed scarred with use. But there's a sticker on the driver's side door, brand new, bright against the faded paint: Viridian Landscape Services. Clean design. Professional.
The corner of my mouth lifts. I know what it means to build something from nothing and put your name on it before you can afford anything else.
I open the door for her. She climbs in, settles behind the wheel. The window is already down. She rests her arm on the frame and looks at me, and whatever is happening between us sits in the open air of that look, unaddressed, unnamed.
"I'll be in touch," she says. "Soon."
I tap the roof twice. Step back.
She pulls away. The truck kicks up a thin trail of dust that hangs in the morning light, and I watch it until it reaches the main road and turns south.
I stay on the dirt road. Hands in my pockets.
William asked me to come here to find her weakness. I think the only weakness I've found is mine.
6
SIENNA
The tailgate of the truck drops with a sound too loud for the street.
