The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) Read Online Free PDF

don’t know what to say. She correctly identified my unaired jealousies, then...nothing. I’d much rather discuss the no-kiss situation than the garden, but I think that’s what she wants me to do, so instead I answer the question she did ask.
    “To see how it’s done,” I reply, finally tearing my eyes from the confounding woman in front of me to study the garden. It’s unexpectedly large, maybe thirty yards by twenty. The entire space is a carefully laid out network of planter boxes, each brimming with growing green plants, trellises and gently hissing irrigation systems. At the far end are two wooden towers, approximately three-feet tall, and even from here I can hear the buzzing that identifies them as beehives. The opposite side hosts a tiny chicken run, with a caged area tall enough for a person to stand up, a small red coop on one end and space for the birds to dart back and forth outside. At present two chickens peck absently at the feed scattered on the ground, and when the wind picks up I catch the faint smell of animal.
    “This is pretty unbelievable,” Susan muses, turning in a circle, looking impressed. “Who knew?”
    Beside us is an entire planter box full of tomatoes climbing over trellises, and the wall space beside the door is draped in netting that supports a wall of tiny green beans. “Rooftop gardening’s a big thing now,” I tell her. “Same with beekeeping.”
    “So why does an accountant want to learn about gardening?” she asks, looking up at me. She’s close enough now that I can reach up to capture the ladybug that lands on her cheek, holding it on the tip of my finger for her to see.
    “To see what’s possible,” I answer, blowing off the ladybug and watching it fly away.
    “You want to open a restaurant?”
    “Not exactly. At the moment I just have a...concept.”
    A knowing look crosses her face. “You want to grow watermelons in Camden. A safe watermelon that won’t hurt another man.”
    “I—” I look at her sharply, but she’s turning back to Rian approaching, tucking his phone back in his pocket. Her lips are curled in a smile, and though Rian and I were college roommates and I love him like a brother, I’d toss him off the roof just to be alone with Susan right now.
    Dammit. I want her. I want to kiss the smirk off her lips. I want to hear what she has to say next. For too long I’ve been missing the elusive spark that makes me desperate to get back for seconds and thirds. And the long buried part of me that craves—needs—a fight is dying to make this one last as many rounds as we can handle.
    I realize Rian’s discussing the garden, something about how it’s two years old, supplies the restaurant with eighty percent of its produce and eggs, and a hundred percent of its honey.
    “You’re both chef and gardener?” Susan asks as we wind our way through the planters. Rian picked up a basket from somewhere and casually plucks tomatoes, cucumbers, herbs and what he assures me are edible flowers from random clusters of green.
    “Chef first,” he says, smiling at her over his shoulder. He catches my glare and grins wider. That fuckwit. He knows I like a challenge and that I’ve been bored lately. Like a good friend and asshole, he’s trying to provide one.
    “We have gardeners who drop in a few times a week to maintain things,” he continues. “A beekeeper who checks the hives. Two of the prep cooks keep an eye on the chickens, collect the eggs, et cetera. And depending on who’s cooking, we all come up to gather the produce as needed. Beautiful, isn’t it?” He holds up a fistful of basil for Susan to sniff, which she does, but we all know “beautiful” doesn’t refer to the herb.
    Fuck off , I mouth when he extends the basil to me.
    He laughs and adds it to the basket, telling us what’s in bloom now, and what will come into season as the summer continues. There’s talk of growing zones, shade and sun, water needs, and companion planting. It’s