I wanted to leave the moment that passed between us in the greenhouse, but it followed us silently. Because if she’d been about to tell me she was ready to move on, I wasn’t ready to hear. I wasn’t ready to end this or let her go. I’d pretend like it was all fun and games if it meant I get to keep her a little while longer.

But that ticking clock was a bomb waiting to detonate. And I was beginning to lose hope that I’d defuse it in time.

I hurried her out of the greenhouse and on to our destination. There was a space in Longbourne I had long ago claimed for my own, one that no one bothered with beyond the occasional perusal by my father. I’d never taken a girl to this place, not ever. In fact, I never willingly invited anyone to this place. Inexplicably, I wanted to show Lila.

I needed to, the compulsion overwhelming as I dragged her through the workroom under the watchful gaze of Tess, Luke, and Wendy, then around the corner of the brick wall and to the narrow stairs only I ever used.

“Was your house expanded over the shop?” she asked, brushing the brick with her fingertips.

“It was, about a billion years ago. We used to own half the block until my grandmother sold our other properties. But she had the property lines redrawn so we could keep the greenhouse in the back.”

“Clever.”

“We have a genetic predisposition to resourcefulness,” I said as we reached the top, and I pushed open the door to the roof.

The moment we were clear of the threshold, she gasped at what she found—the small roof greenhouse I’d claimed a decade ago, a place to grow projects just for me. Her face was full of wonder, her red hair shining like a penny in the sun as she approached the structure, which was stuffed to the gills with greenery.

“I didn’t know there was another greenhouse at Longbourne.”

“Oh, this one’s not for the public. It’s strictly mine.” I moved for the door, and she followed, stepping into the space made warm by trapped sunlight and an abundance of plants nestled together, shoulder to shoulder.

Dirt crunched underfoot as we wound our way in. Every wall was lined with shelves, and from the rafters hung a dozen planters, all teeming with life. In the center stood my workspace, capped on each end with yet more shelves. Below the table was a cacophony of tools, pots, bags of soil and pH tests and fertilizer and enough spiders to ward off almost anybody—with the exception of Dad. He’d stick his hand in there willy-nilly, but then again, he never was afraid of much. Other than Mom, I figured.