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

more information than I was prepared for, and it doesn’t help that I can barely concentrate, watching Susan bend to study a plant, scratch her temple as she asks questions, smile as she bites into a strawberry.
    Rian’s phone rings again as he talks about the versatility of nasturtiums, and he curses. “It’s the kitchen,” he says apologetically. “I’m supposed to be off, but one of the sous chefs called in sick and these last-minute reservations left them shorthanded. I’m just going to run down and put out a few fires—don’t go anywhere.” Then to me he adds, “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
    Susan and I are quiet as we watch him go. “I can’t tell if you love him or hate him,” she remarks.
    “I haven’t given him a lot of thought tonight,” I admit. “Or gardening.”
    “Really? You should pay attention, if you want a garden of your own. He’s got a lot of good information. Like this, for example.” She plucks two strawberries from the cluster of plants at her knees, wiping off any visible dirt before extending one to me. “How to grow strawberries.” She bites into the berry, the red staining her teeth before her lips close and she chews. “When was the last time you had a strawberry, Oscar?”
    I want to kiss her so bad. Close the fire door and lock us up on the roof, the urban Garden of Eden. She can eat whatever she wants. I’ll eat anything she asks. Instead I eat the damn strawberry. “A good one? I don’t know, Susan. You?”
    She eats the rest of the berry and tosses the stem back onto the soil, watching me. “A strawberry or sex?” she asks.
    She catches me midswallow and I almost choke, looking away to compose myself. “What are you doing?” I ask when I turn back.
    “Why’d you come to the hospital today?”
    “To see you.”
    “To say hi?”
    “That too.”
    “And?”
    “Why’d you say hi back, Susan?”
    “Because I wanted to, Oscar. Because I’m too busy not to. Because I’m free tonight and I don’t know the next time I will be.”
    I make myself inhale. The urge to strip her right here, bear her down on to the soil, crushing the plants, smelling basil or oregano or whatever the hell it is as we fuck, is intense. In fact, it’s the best idea I’ve ever had. But something makes me hold back, and it’s not propriety. It’s not the fact that Rian could return at any minute. It’s not even the fact that I barely know her.
    It’s because it wouldn’t be enough, and for the first time in years I’m feeling the piece of me I’ve tucked away for so long stir to life. It’s like that marshmallow test, where they give you one and tell you that you can eat it now, but if you wait a while and don’t touch it, they’ll come back and give you a second one. I’m a thirty-four-year-old man and I want all the marshmallows.
    “If you want something, say so,” I tell her. I wipe my hands on my slacks, heedless of the strawberry juice.
    “I don’t want your friend,” she replies. “He’s not my type.”
    “What is?”
    A twist of the lips. “Smart,” she says. “Employed. Interesting. Articulate. Understanding. Busy enough with his own life that he doesn’t begrudge me mine. Because I’m not going to change. I’m getting divorced because I won’t change.”
    “That’s all?”
    “Well, that and apparently I’m a control freak with borderline personality disorder and a lame sense of humor. But I just think I’m focused, and pretty funny, and I haven’t had a strawberry since Christmas, so if you—”
    I had a “strawberry” two weeks ago, and I can barely recall her name. But the more I watch Susan’s lips move, tinted pink from the berries, the more I know she’s exactly what I didn’t even know I’d been missing. I step into her, cupping her face in my hands, feeling the strong line of her square jaw against my palms, and kiss her. I don’t even bother with polite and tentative, because I think Susan would eat that guy alive.