But his phone buzzes on the counter behind us, breaking the spell. Reed jerks his hand away as if he’s been burned, immediately moving to check the message.
“It’s Bramblewood,” he says, scanning the screen. “They want to move the pitch-a-thon up to tomorrow.”
“That’s good, right?”
Reed’s face pales. “If I have a product to show them, sure…” He stares at his seedlings despondently. “This is my last chance, Eliza. If this fails, I’ll have to go back to my parents. Accept their money, their corporate job, their entire life plan.”
The fear in his voice makes my chest tight. “I don’t know what all that means, but that won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you care more about these trees than anyone else possibly could.” I step closer again, drawn by his vulnerability. “I know you’re brilliant and passionate and too stubborn to give up.”
Reed looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make me believe things could work out?”
Before I can answer, his phone buzzes again. Reed glances at it with a grimace.
“My mother,” he says. “Probably wondering why I missed the ballet.”
“You should answer it.”
“I should.” But he doesn’t move. “Eliza, about earlier, when I left so abruptly?—”
“You got overwhelmed.” I shrug, pretending it doesn’t matter, even though it kind of does. “Happens to everyone.”
“Not to me. I don’t get overwhelmed. I plan for contingencies.”
“Maybe you need more practice with chaos.”
Reed’s mouth quirks in what might be the beginning of a smile. “Is that what you are? Chaos?”
“Among other things.”
His phone buzzes incessantly, and Reed sighs. “I should take this. Look around, but please touch nothing.”
As Reed steps outside to take his call, I wander through his greenhouse, touching his trees and breathing in the fragrant air. Through the window, I watch him pace while he talks, his free hand gesticulating. I’m no stranger to uncomfortable calls with parents. I avoid my mother’s calls more often than not.
He’s nothing like the men I usually find attractive—too serious, too controlled, too concerned with doing everything perfectly. But there’s something about the way he looks at his trees, the way he talks about sustainability and efficiency and making the world better.
And the way he looked at me when he said I wasn’t simple.
My phone buzzes with a text from Eden.
How’s it going with tree boy?
I stare at the message, trying to figure out how to answer. I brought him manure that nearly gave him a heart attack. He talks about soil in a way that does things to my nether parts. Yet, he has the power to ruin me with one call to a lawyer. Everything is deeply confusing.
Complicated
I bite my lip and add,
Good
Eden responds immediately.
