Chapter 8 Unexpected Compensation
Blake: POV
I studied her face, watching emotions cycle through her features like a slideshow—confusion, embarrassment, indignation, and finally, resignation. This was the Olivia I remembered, always calculating her next move. But I had her cornered now.
"I thought about it for a moment," I said, pretending to consider deeply. "That compensation you mentioned."
She nodded cautiously, clutching her purse like a shield. "As long as it's reasonable."
I met her eyes. "Have you ever gotten your hands dirty, Parker?"
"Excuse me?" Her eyebrows shot up.
"I'm not talking about sex," I said, rolling my eyes. "I mean actual dirt. The kind under fingernails."
"What are you getting at?"
I fought back a smile. "You're going to volunteer at my garden center. This weekend." I leaned against the wall, ignoring the twinge in my lower back. "You know, do some actual work for once."
Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "You want me to... garden?"
"Problem?"
"I have a job, Blake. A real one."
That stung, but I kept my expression neutral. "And I don't?"
She backpedaled. "That's not what I meant."
"Then what's the issue? You owe me, remember? Your words, not mine."
Olivia exhaled, her eyebrows twitching in that way they always did when she was annoyed but trying not to show it. "Fine. What time?"
"Saturday, 9 AM. Don't be late." I scribbled my address on a hotel notepad and handed it to her. "Wear something you don't mind ruining."
"Anything else, boss?" Her tone dripped with sarcasm.
"Yeah. Bring coffee. Black for me."
She snatched the paper from my hand. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Just collecting what I'm owed."
As she headed for the door, she paused. "For what it's worth, last night was... not bad."
I bit back a laugh. "High praise."
"Don't push it, Westwood." She left without looking back.
I collapsed onto the bed after she was gone, wincing as my back protested. Worth it. The slight discomfort was a small price to pay for seeing her flustered. And now I had guaranteed she'd see me again.
---
"Your L4 and L5 vertebrae are showing significant improvement," Dr. Thomas said, examining my latest scans. "The physical therapy is working well."
I sat on the edge of the examination table, redoing the buttons on my shirt. "So I'm good to go? No more visits?"
She gave me the look I'd come to know well—half amusement, half exasperation. "Not so fast. You're better, not healed. I'd like to continue PT for another month, twice weekly."
"Come on, Doc. My garden center needs me."
"Your garden center needs you mobile and pain-free," she countered. "Have you been doing the exercises I prescribed?"
"Most of them," I admitted.
"And the pain level?"
"Three on most days. Maybe four if I overdo it." I didn't mention yesterday's activities had pushed it to a six. Some things were worth the pain.
She made notes in my file. "Any heavy lifting?"
My mind flashed to Olivia—her legs wrapped around my waist, her hands in my hair, her breathless "Don't stop" against my ear. Thank God my back had held up. If I'd had to stop mid-act because of pain... Jesus, that would've been humiliating.
"Blake?"
I blinked. "Sorry. No heavy lifting."
Dr. Thomas didn't look convinced. "Take the anti-inflammatories when needed, but don't push yourself. The nerves are still sensitive."
"Got it." I stood, grabbing my jacket. "Thanks, Doc."
"And Blake?" She looked up from her tablet. "Whatever—or whoever—you lifted yesterday? Don't do it again until I clear you."
My face heated. Was I that transparent?
---
My phone rang as I left the medical building. Nathan's name lit up the screen, and I considered ignoring it. But that would just mean more calls later.
"What?" I answered, sliding into my car.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine," my brother's voice came through the speaker. "How's the invalid?"
"Improving. What do you want?"
"Dad's wondering when you're planning to grace us with your presence at the office. The coding team misses your insights."
I snorted. "They're doing fine without me. You're doing fine without me."
"You're right," Nathan admitted. "But I still want you to come back."
"I told you, I'll consult on projects that interest me. I'm not coming back full-time."
"Blake—"
"I'm happy at Bloom Haven," I cut him off. "I've got three new rose varieties launching next month, and the Petal & Prose café is finally turning a profit."
Nathan sighed. "You know you could do both, right? Part-time at Westwood Tech, part-time playing with your flowers."
"They're not just flowers," I said automatically. It was an old argument.
After completing my degrees, I'd joined Westwood Tech as expected, but at our overseas division. I handled several major accounts and even spearheaded our Asia expansion. I was good at it—damn good—but my heart wasn't in it.
That same year I finished school, I found out Olivia was dating that tech asshole Jason. Damn it, I should have made my move first. I started chasing adrenaline to numb the pain—rock climbing, motorcycle racing, extreme skiing. Anything to feel something besides heartache. Then three years ago, a bad landing during a ski trip in Aspen shattered my L4 and L5 vertebrae. The doctors said I was lucky not to be paralyzed.
After spending two years confined to a hospital bed, I was finally able to move around again. That's when my parents forced me to come back home with my brother. They wanted us to manage the domestic company together.
But my heart wasn't in it. I used my back injury as an excuse, claiming I still needed time to recover, and started growing flowers instead.
I did everything possible to avoid running into Olivia. I even had my brother block any news about my return; he laughed and called me pathetic.
"Fine," Nathan said, pulling me back to the present. "But we've got that government contract coming up. Could you at least look over the proposal?"
"Email it over. I'll check it tonight."
"Good enough. By the way, Dad called from Tokyo. The merger's taking longer than expected, so they won't be back for another month."
"Tell him I said hi."
After hanging up, I sat in my car for a moment, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. The conversation had gone better than usual. Nathan had mostly accepted my career choice, even if he didn't understand it. My father was the one who still thought I was wasting my potential.
They didn't get that I needed this—needed the soil under my nails, the scent of roses in the air, the quiet of the greenhouse at dawn. After the accident and years of corporate bullshit, I'd found peace among the thorns.
I pulled out my phone again and dialed another number.
"Theo? It's Blake.”