Rory froze mid-snip, pruning shears hovering like she'd suddenly forgotten which plant had personally offended her. The breeze caught her hair—that impossible black with copper threads where sunlight worked its alchemy—and Jim's fingers twitched with the need to touch it, to trace the map of her jawline, to discover if kissing her in the garden would be different from kissing her in the kitchen four hours ago.
"Jim." His name in her voice was both yellow light and gas pedal. "We can't just—" She waved the shears between them in what had to violate several garden safety protocols. "This is guaranteed chaos."
"Chaos?" He couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. "Sweetheart, what we're contemplating makes dumpster fires look like controlled burns."
"Don't call me that." The blush creeping
