From the corner of the greenhouse where he inspected his varied collection of orchids, Cal watched Laura work. She was efficiently filling the bottom third of three dozen hanging baskets with polystyrene in preparation for repotting the
Rhynchostylis
, a portion of the orchids they were busily preparing for the wedding of Cal's niece the following spring.
His sister had asked for a large variety of blooms. As a result, Cal had spent even more time than usual in his greenhouse, preparing pink and white
Miltoniopsis
, and waxy
Angraecum leonis
, among others.
"Let me help you out over here," he called to Laura, and made his way back to the work table.
Cal had worked closely with Laura before and kept his desire for her firmly in check, but there was something about the day, the humidity, the smells, and the closeness of her that rocketed that desire to a fevered pitch. Perhaps it was the steady patter of rain on the glass roof or the way he'd watched Laura run in from it, skipping over puddles and laughing like a girl as she'd covered her hair.
Perhaps it was the simple fact that Laura had neglected to wear a bra that day, and he could see the subtle movements of her small breasts and outlines of her rosy nipples through the clinging t-shirt she wore. Her long, light brown hair curled just enough to frame her delicate face. A stray beam of sunlight made its way through the rain and touched one lock, turning the strands deep, honeyed gold.
