Worth The Wait: A Nature Of Desire Series Novel by Joey W. Hill Page B

the millstones of the past. She could call this not a date all she wanted. They both knew what it was. The heated energy between their two bodies, the sure clasp of his hand on hers, and the little dance inside her when he implied she was beautiful, were all proof of it.
    He’d also caught her attention with the rare date comment. Another common ground for them, though she wondered what his reasons were for not dating, when he was so wonderfully, despicably good at it.
    “How about before we go to the orchid area, I show you around the park some? I assume you haven’t been here before. It’s also probably smart to scope the terrain so when those zombies come, we’ll know the best defendable ground.”
    “A man who plans for the worst. I appreciate that.” Her hand involuntarily—so she told herself—tightened on his and he gave her that smile that made her feel like she’d be okay with him. He was going to be kind.
    Kindness had become the quality she valued most in a relationship, one that was far too rare. Though she was well aware of the conflict in her nature that craved a passion that wasn’t always kind, that would be edgy and demanding, she knew wanting both was like pissing in the wind. When the choice had to be made, kind was the better option. She’d learned that lesson.
    For the next hour, he gave her an unhurried tour of the outdoor garden areas that he seemed to enjoy as much as she did, despite his familiarity with them. The Canal Garden was a long, rectangular koi pond with a fountain display where sparkling arches of water ran all the way along its length. The Lost Hollow, the children’s garden, enchanted her. It included what Des dubbed the Troll Cave, a stone hollow underneath a wooden bridge with square rock seats where the kids could sit and enjoy the coolness. With a little stooping, it worked for adults, too, so she sat with him under there. Des amused her by singing high note choruses from Air Supply songs to demonstrate the acoustics.
    They visited the Serpentine and Ribbon Gardens, then looped back to the White Garden, a sheltered courtyard decorated with beds of white flowers. Tall, slender-stemmed dancing flowers, thick ground covers and medium-sized clusters were interspersed with the variegated greenery.
    Throughout his tour, they talked about different topics. Initially about their surroundings, then what gardens she’d visited up in the New York area, and the tomato plants she’d attempted to grow on her tiny window balcony in New York. If she hadn’t forgotten to water them, and the cat upstairs hadn’t discovered them and used them for a litter box while she was caught up in her long theater hours, she was sure the poor things could have supplied the metropolis with tomatoes.
    He asked her about hobbies and she confirmed the theater was her main passion. She found out he didn’t watch much TV and preferred music, which launched a discussion of favorite songs, bands and music periods.
    During all that, he kept holding her hand. He’d drop it periodically to illustrate a point, or change hands as they shifted around one another on the garden paths, but inevitably, their bodies would bump and the hands would relink. She began to wonder if it was him doing it, or both of them, because it seemed so natural to let her hand find his and their fingers intertwine. As he spoke to her, he kept leaning in, brushing her shoulder and body with his hip, a casual intimacy that heightened her awareness of his proximity in an unsettling way, while simultaneously making her more comfortable with his touch.
    It was when they were in the White Garden, surrounded by the lacy purity of those flowers, that she realized she was reclaiming her sense of herself. She was also feeling lighter, no longer carrying around the past relationship worries she’d had in the parking lot.
    "So how old are you?" she asked. “You look like you’re twenty-five, but you’re more mature than any twenty-five year