“All right, Mr. Disapproval, what about you? Is this your dream job? Is working in the greenhouse your calling, or whatever?” She deflected, and I let her.

“Would it offend you if I said I didn’t have one?”

“Yes, it would.”

I laughed, giving her ass a squeeze.

Her brow quirked. “You really don’t have a passion?”

“There are things I enjoy, like sketching and growing things, sure. But passion’s a strong word. Are you passionate about getting hit in the face with cake?”

“Not so much that part of it, but the Femmes are a package deal. A smelly, gross package that will end up with me being humiliated weekly on national television, but a package that’s good for my career nonetheless. What I’m passionate about is the thrill. Spending months organizing something, bringing it all together to create a perfect moment. The joy of seeing that moment come to fruition and the joy experienced by the people I put it together for. It makes me feel like I did something great, something hard.”

“It makes you feel accomplished. But is that your passion? Is it something you’d do if you didn’t make a cent doing it?”

She was frowning again. “Is gardening yours?”

I shrugged, taking her arms around my neck for a ride. “Sure.”

“That was convincing.”

“There are a lot of things I love about it and nothing I hate. Other than getting bawled out by wedding planners.”

That earned me a laugh. “You mean to tell me there’s not one thing about your job you’re loathe to do? I mean, aside from dealing with me.”

I gave it the thought it deserved and answered honestly. “No, nothing.”

“Even shoveling mulch?”

“Even shoveling mulch. I call it shoulder day and wear a bandana to cover the smell. Makes me feel like a cowboy.”

She assessed me, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You know, I could see that. You as a cowboy. You don’t belong in this world.”

“No?”

“No. You could be a Gallic warrior or a Viking king or a cowboy. Brutish and wild, untamed. Size alone warrants the impossibility that you live in this time and not somewhere long ago, ruled by survival.”

The compliment I kept, held it tight, slid it into my pocket to remember later. “I think I’d pick a cowboy. Always did like horses. Although I’d probably be terrible at guns and lassos.”

“You’d learn,” she assured me, smiling. “There’s got to be something about your job you hate.”

“Why’s it so hard to believe?”

“Because it’s impossible.”

“Hate’s just as strong a word as passion. I don’t hate much of anything.”

She inspected me, saying after a moment, “Tell me one thing you hate.”

I broke my gaze to look over the top of her head at the wall, finally landing on something. “I hate when someone I love is hurt.”