Sam wore his clothes—and his personality, for that matter—with understated confidence. She frequently wondered what others thought of her, but she’d bet Sam almost never did.
“Are your pants made out of twill?” she asked.
He regarded her with confusion tinged with amusement as he neared. “What kind of question is that?”
“An honest one?”
“I have no idea what my pants are made of.”
“Well, I think they’re made of twill. That makes three things I know about farming.” He didn’t bother to ask what the first two things were, robbing her of the opportunity to tell him about sunscreen and ponytails.
He peered down, obviously assessing her efforts.
“I’ve simply been pulling weeds,” she told him. “I figured I couldn’t go wrong pulling weeds.”
“Right. Except these”—his work boot nudged a pile of shoots she’d uprooted—“are chives.”
“Oh!” She looked from the chives to him and started to laugh. “I’m sorry.”
“Apparently, you can go wrong pulling weeds.”
“Yes. It seems that way. My apologies. Perhaps we can replant the poor chives?”
“Doubtful.”
“I’ll do it—”
“Allow me,” he responded firmly, dropping to his knees. The disapproving grimace he sent her incited a giggle. She knew he already thought her unbalanced. Another fit of the giggles like she’d had at Dr. Quinley’s wasn’t going to improve her standing in his eyes.
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to gardening?” he asked.
“Yes. I told you that I’d help in your garden, and I’m a woman of my word.”
“Your use of the wordhelpis debatable.”
“Touché.”
“I didn’t expect you to start volunteering for me this soon.” His attention settled on the soil he was working. “I don’t want your health suffering because you’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“If either of us is in danger of pushing themselves too hard physically, I don’t think that person’s me. Before Dr. Quinley’s plan, the most strenuous exercise I got some days came from lifting Jelly Bellies to my mouth.”
“So you’re feeling good?” he asked after a time, seeming to need double confirmation.
“As good as can be expected.”
“How about mentally? Emotionally?”
She ripped a small weed from the earth, minuscule clods of dirt clinging to its roots, then tossed it aside and met his eyes.
The sight of his masculine body against the backdrop of trees caused her to swallow. His neck ended in defined collarbones. His olive complexion turned his green eyes luminous. The breeze rustling through the plants carried snatches of the scent of his soap to her. He smelled like eucalyptus and sun.
She resumed pulling weeds the way she imagined a good farmer woman might in order to compose herself and buy time before answering his question.
Sam could clearly see that Gen didn’t know what she was doing. She was yanking out weeds so violently that half the time, she was breaking them off and leaving the roots. The other half of the time, she was “weeding” actual produce.
“Hey,” he said. “Steady on. Like this.” He demonstrated, his movements careful, patient.
She imitated him.
