By the time Ainsley shuffles out of her room an hour later, I've already downed two cups and made a plan that's either brilliant or idiotic. The jury's still out.
She's wearing those sleep shorts again—the dangerously short ones—and an oversized hoodie that swallows her whole. Her hair's piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and there are pillow creases on her cheek.
She's perfect.
"Morning," I say, keeping my voice low.
She startles, hand flying to her chest. "God. I didn't know you were up."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
"It's fine. I just..." She trails off, gaze landing on the coffee pot. "Is there coffee?"
"Fresh pot. Made it ten minutes ago."
Her entire face softens. "You're a saint."
Not even close, I think, watching her pour herself a mug and add enough creamer to turn it pale brown. Saints don't spend half the night thinking about their roommate's legs and voluptuous ass.
She takes a sip, eyes closing in what looks like genuine pleasure, and I have to look away before I do something stupid.
"So," I start, leaning against the counter. "I was thinking."
Her eyes open, suspicious. "About?"
"Your garden."
She goes still, mug halfway to her lips. "What about it?"
"I know it's off-limits," I say. "But I was wondering if you'd let me help. Just for today."
"Help," she repeats.
"Yeah. You tell me what to do, and I do it. No questions, no improvising. I follow orders." I pause, meeting her gaze. "Remember, I'm good at that."
Her cheeks flush, and I know she's thinking about Tuesday morning in this exact spot, when I tested every one of her boundaries and made her spell out what counted as flirting.
"I don't know," she says, voice uncertain. "The garden's kind of my thing."
"I get that. But it's also a lot of work for one person, and you've been pulling double shifts since Thursday. Let me help."
She studies me for a long moment, teeth worrying her bottom lip. I can see the war happening behind her eyes—control versus exhaustion, fear versus curiosity.
She exhales. "Okay. But you have to do everything I say. No deviating. No deciding you know better."
"Yes, ma'am."
Her eyes narrow. "I'm serious, Troy."
"So am I." I straighten, crossing my arms. "You're in charge. I'm just the muscle."
She takes another sip of coffee, hiding what might be a smile. "Fine. Give me twenty minutes to get dressed."
Twenty-three minutes later, we're standing in the backyard, and Ainsley has transformed.
Gone is the sleepy, uncertain woman from the kitchen. Out here, she's confident. Focused. Her hands move over the plants with a kind of reverence that makes something tighten in my chest.
"We're starting with weeding," she says, pulling on a pair of worn gardening gloves. "Then we'll water, check for pests, and if there's time, I want to stake the new tomato plants."
