Clara’s new neighbor, Mr. Hensley, was married, rich, and dull as dishwater. But his gardener, Luca? Luca was a sun-kissed fantasy, all sweaty tank tops and dirt-streaked forearms. Clara watched him from her balcony, pruning roses with hands she wanted pruning her. Forbidden didn’t begin to cover it—Mrs. Hensley would have her evicted faster than you could say “trespassing.”
One sweltering afternoon, Luca caught her staring. “Like my roses, lady?” he called, grinning, his accent curling her toes. Clara, in a sundress and bad decisions, leaned over the railing. “Love ‘em. Got any… tips?” Her voice was pure innuendo, and she cringed at herself. Luca laughed, wiping sweat from his brow, his shirt clinging like a second skin. “Come down. I’ll show you.”
She did, heels sinking into the lawn, her pulse a disco beat. He handed her clippers, standing close, his breath hot on her neck. “Snip gently,” he murmured, guiding her hand. Clara’s brain screamed lawsuit, but her body screamed yes. She snipped wildly, decapitating a rose. “Oops,” she giggled, dizzy from his cedar-and-soil scent.
Mrs. Hensley’s car rolled up, and Clara dove behind a bush, skirt hiked, dignity gone. Luca smirked, tossing her a flower. “For your trouble,” he whispered. She crawled home, thorns in her hair, and clutched the rose like a lovesick teenager. That night, she dreamed of Luca’s hands, dirt and all, and woke up flushed.
Next week, she’d “borrow” his shears. Or his heart. Whichever he offered first.