Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
I feel myself relax as we move through rows of flowers—dahlias, climbing roses, and these bright purple flowers. Each patch feels like it has its own personality, its own mood, and I’m getting lost in her stories about them. It’s not just flowers and plants to her; it’s her whole world.
I touch a velvety leaf, it’s like satin under my fingers. “It shows. You’ve put your heart into this, haven’t you?”
She laughs, a warm sound that feels as comfortable as the garden itself. “I have. It’s my passion, you know? It’s my little haven. A sanctuary—somewhere you can step into and the plants will heal you.”
I realize I’m not thinking about Ivan or the tension that’s been brewing since I met him. For the first time, it’s quiet inside my head. This isn’t anything like the chaos of the city or my small apartment with its half-dead cactus on the windowsill. This is something else entirely.
“Honestly, it does feel like a sanctuary,” I admit, a little surprised at myself for saying it out loud.
Muriel smiles, and I sense her pride and love for the truly marvelous space she’s created. “It’s my joy. So if you really want to learn and there’s plenty we can cover while you’re here if you’re happy to get your hands dirty.”
I find myself smiling back, a real smile. “I’d love that. This is more than I ever thought I’d get to learn.”
As we wrap up the tour, my phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me. I take it out, and my heart does a little jump when I recognize the number that flashes across the screen. It’s Ivan’s coldly beautiful PA.
“Miss Fitzpatrick,” she begins, her voice as sharp as nails. “You’re having dinner at Le Bernardin tonight. The chauffeur will pick you up at seven sharp. Don’t keep him waiting and make sure you dress appropriately.”
My temper is immediately aroused. Where does she get off talking to me in that bossy tone, and making out as if I don’t know how to dress appropriately for dinner at a good restaurant? But I don’t betray my resentment. I keep my voice cool. “Dinner with Ivan?”
“Yes,” she confirms, her tone irritated. “He has a prior meeting so you will be joining him after. Please be punctual. Mr. Ivanovich hates to be kept waiting Oh, and I’ll call you tomorrow to discuss arrangements for the Gala.”
I’m almost amused by how annoyed she is with me. “Sure, whatever,” I say nonchalantly, knowing that my casual attitude is guaranteed to piss her off even more.
As I expected, the call briskly comes to an end and I stand there holding my phone, my nerves all a flutter. Dinner with Ivan. Like a date. Well, well. I slide my phone back into my pocket, trying to keep the fluttering in my chest at bay. Dinner is hours away, but knowing it’s going to happen makes me feel restless.
Muriel notices the look on my face. “Everything alright?”
“Yes, everything is just fine,” I say, a big, happy smile on my face.
“Good.”
Later on, as I return to my room, I can’t help but feel the thrill growing inside me. It’s ridiculous—just dinner, nothing more. I look at the time and realize I have only a couple of hours to get ready and I feel a sense of urgency. What should I wear? And why do I care so much? In order to keep myself in check, I go to my room and deliberately scroll through my Instagram to look for garden ideas so I can resist the urge to run to the closet and browse through the available options.
Chapter Thirty-Five
IVAN
“As I was saying, the new site near Chicago would significantly cut down transportation costs for the Midwest distribution,” Levi says, his black eyes watching and shrewd over his glass of whiskey.
My eyes slide towards the window. “Sounds promising. I’ll get one of my guys to look over the legal side of things.”
The view outside shows the steady movement of traffic, yellow cabs weaving in and out, and the warm glow of streetlights bouncing off the passing cars. The restaurant, positioned right in the heart of Manhattan, has a perfect view of the city streets. It is the kind of place where deals get closed and fortunes are made, but right now, all I’m interested in is the black sedan I’ve been waiting to see pull up.
I catch the glint of its sleek exterior, and my attention sharpens. The doorman steps forward as she emerges from the back seat. She’s wearing jeans and a tucked-in black t-shirt, paired with heels—casual but effortlessly striking. Her hair is loose and flowing as she steps onto the sidewalk. I thought she’d dress up. It’s dinner at a top-tier place, not some corner café. Greta should’ve told her that.
I force myself to turn back to the clients. “Let’s wrap this up for today. I’ll have my team review it by next week and get back to you then.”