My eyes can’t help scanning past him through the open French windows and into his apartment. Déjà vu. Haven’t we been here before? Searching for a woman, or a trace of one, the agony of not knowing what might have happened inside?
“How did it go last night?” he asks, making me jump.
My face burns, and my mouth opens but no words come.
“I could hear the shouting from the kitchen.” Stifling a yawn, he rubs both hands over his face. “So I guessed you were caught in the middle of it.”
Oh, that.
Relieved, my heart slows back down. “Yeah.”
“They were quite loud. I didn’t want to hang around and went upstairs. Sorry I didn’t wait for you.”
“You didn’t see them?”
“No.” He pushes his fingers through his hair, mussing it even more.
My relief is so strong it makes me forget my decision to avoid him. “Coffee?” I ask.
“Thank you. Yes, please.” He pulls out a chair and settles into it.
I’m my own worst enemy. I go inside and find my favourite blue mug – the one that’s the perfect size for a double measure. I take extra care with his coffee, making sure the machine is properly primed so it produces lots of creamy foam.
When I bring him the mug he takes his first sip and closes his eyes. The only way to really appreciate good coffee; I should know. “Heaven,” he says, rewarding me with a beautiful smile that melts what’s left of my mental resistance.
No. No. He doesn’t want me. It’s him who turned me down.I have to repeat this to myself a few times until I can make myself turn away from him, walk over to the railings and look at the garden, drawing support from the beautiful shapes below.
“It’s really taking shape.” He comes to stand beside me. Placing his forearms on the wrought iron edge, he too studies the view below.
This close, I can smell him – that male slept-in scent: warm, sexy and feels like home. Just one step, and I could bury myself in his embrace.
It takes a minute before I can focus on the grounds, but eventually my mind starts working properly. The rolled-up turf pieces look like hundreds of short, fat cigars, lined up at regular intervals.
“Are you turfing today?” he asks.
“They were delivered yesterday, so yes. They need to be laid before the grass starts to discolour and dry out.”
“How can I help?”
“You can’t.” I smile quickly and just as quickly turn back to the garden. “Laying turf is a specialist job.”
“Don’t tell me you’re doing it all yourself. That will take…” He scans over the grounds, trying to estimate surface area and days of work.
“I’ve hired professionals. We’ll get it all done today.”
He whistles softly.
“It’s okay. I’ve budgeted for this. Some corners can’t be cut, and laying turf is one of them. Besides, the free labour from yourPerllanshas saved me hundreds of pounds.”
“What kind of grass did you get?”
A happy feeling, like an iridescent soap bubble, rises from my chest and breaks into a grin on my face. This is one of my favourite features and my joy and anticipation replace all my anxiety of the night before.
This is why gardens are so rewarding; the best love affair I’ll ever have.
“These are standard rich lawn.” I point directly below the balcony, where lines of tiny Union Jacks flutter in the morning breeze. “But where the EU flags are is clover. The Welsh flags tied with string are wildflower mixes. I’ve been researching native wildflowers. But it takes time to plan something permanent. So this year I’m taking shortcuts.”
He turns to stare at me. “You play your cards close to the chest, don’t you? This is the first I hear about it.”
