"Pretty much. They talked about Evergreen Lakes as if it were some kind of small-town paradise. Figured I had nothing to lose."
"And now?"
I hold her gaze and smile. "Now I'm glad I came."
Her breath hitches, and I watch her pulse flutter in her throat. We're close—closer than we've been since that morning in the kitchen. Close enough that I can see the flecks of green in her blue eyes, the faint dusting of freckles across her nose.
"Ainsley," I start, voice rough.
"Yeah?"
"I need to tell you something."
She swallows. "Okay."
"I'm not good at this. Talking about feelings or whatever. But I need you to know..." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to worry about me bailing or screwing you over. I'm here. For as long as you'll let me stay."
Her eyes go wide, and I can see the exact moment she understands what I'm saying.
"Troy—"
"Just think about it," I say. "That's all I'm asking."
She nods slowly, and we go back to working. But the air between us has shifted. Charged.
An hour later, we're almost done. Ainsley's kneeling in front of the last row of plants, hair escaping her ponytail in damp curls, dirt smudged on her cheek. She's frowning at the pepper plant as if it offended her.
"What's wrong?" I ask, crouching beside her.
"This one's not getting enough water. See how the leaves are drooping?" She brushes her fingers over the plant, gentle and careful.
"Show me."
She leans closer, pointing to the base of the plant. "Water right here, at the roots. Not the leaves. If you get the leaves wet, they can burn in the sun or develop mold."
I'm barely listening because she's so close, I can smell her—citrus and sugar and something earthy from the garden. Her shoulder brushes mine, and heat shoots through me like a live wire.
"Troy?"
"Yeah. Roots. Got it."
She glances up, and our faces are inches apart. Her lips part, and I watch her gaze drop to my mouth.
Do it, I think. Just close the distance and—
"Hand me the watering can?" she says, voice breathless.
I pass it to her, and our fingers brush. She inhales sharply, and I know she feels it too. This pull. This ache.
She waters the plant, hands shaking, then sets the can down and sits back on her heels.
"That's it," she says. "We're done."
"Good." I stand, offering her my hand.
She takes it, and I pull her to her feet. But she doesn't let go. Just stands there, looking up at me, dirt on her face and sunlight in her hair.
"Thank you," she breathes. "For helping. For listening. For... everything."
