I’ll pretend I’m mad about the over-the-topness of it all when he’s around, but secretly I’m glowing on the inside. A garden like this has always been a dream of mine. I had one about half this size when I was first married, living in Nashville. But with studying for my master’s and doctoral degrees, I didn’t have the time to really take care of it. When we moved out here, a little slice of me fell away.
The girls and I went to the garden center to pick out all the seeds we wanted. It’s too late in the season to plant everything we wanted, but a late summer/early fall harvest should turn out plentiful with pumpkins, butternut squash,kale, beets, cabbage, and Brussels sprouts. But that’s just six of the beds. The other four are going to be a mix of daylilies, foxglove, cosmos, zinnias, dahlias, and of course, sunflowers (because my daughters love them, not because Jonah does).
The three of us are preparing the garden, Delta asking me a million questions, and Loretta silently by my side, waiting for the next direction, when Jonah’s SUV rolls down the street behind us, well under the speed limit.
A couple of minutes later, his pair of Great Pyrenees are bound for us and bark to be let inside the fence line. God, they’re adorable. I want to rub my face in their fur.
Jonah catches up with them. He’s wearing rugby shorts, sandals, and a cut-off T-shirt that exposes his tattooed, muscular arms and the sides of his defined torso. I quickly tamp down the horny little gremlin inside of me who is begging me to remember what his arms looked like hooked around my legs and his face between my thighs.
“Looks like you’ve put in a lot of work already,” he says, but makes no move to open the fence gate, his hands firmly placed on his hips.
“We planted sunflowers,” Delta replies, before running to open the gate.
When it’s opened, he hesitates and looks to me for approval—which is both comforting that he’s respecting my space, but also infuriating because it turns me on when a man waits for what he wants.
Even his dogs wait there until I give him the okay. Each of the girls hugs a dog as Jonah strides in, inspecting our progress with a smile. “Can I help with anything?” he asks.
“That’s okay; you don’t have to. You probably wanna shower and rest up.”
“I’d like to help if you don’t mind. If you can handle how much I smell,” he chuckles.
“We’ve been elbow-deep in compost today, so I think wecan handle your body odor.”
That makes him grin. “What do you need?”
“We’re just finishing up with beets right here. Hand me that little plastic container.” I outstretch my hand, and he passes the tiny, jagged beet seeds to me. “Now take that spade and dig half-inch holes, each hole two inches apart.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, but it’s not in a flirtatious way. It’s studious, and it burns me with unexpected pleasure.
The girls are far from interested in helping me now that the dogs are here, and they’re rolling around on the gravel with them without a care in the world.
There’s not much left to do other than wait for each hole to be scooped and plant a single seed in each, which gives me time to sit on the wide edge of the garden bed and watch as Jonah carefully digs each half-inch hole. To be quite frank, I’ve never seen him apply so much focus to anything.
I could take another spade and dig along with him, but after a long day of gardening, sitting here and watching a pretty boy do my work feels luxurious.
He digs a hole a little too deep, but fills in back in at the right depth. “Sorry,” he says.
Fuck, he’s cute.I want to punish him for it.
He’s so concentrated on his task that it gives me space to study his body. His golden hair is tied back in a bun, flyaways framing his head. His jawline is strong and defined, giving way to a pronounced Adam’s apple. He has the most random assortment of tattoos covering his arms and peeking along his ribs—all different styles. Some colored, some not. Animal fromThe Muppetssits behind a drum set along his left-side flank.
Jonah is kneeling on a pad in front of the raised garden bed, and my gaze skates over his thighs, which are very exposed in his small black rugby shorts. Dark blond hair dusts down to his ankles. There’s a crest inked on this rightthigh with the wordsPhiladelphia Men’s Rugby Teamin a banner at the bottom.
“You still play rugby,” I say.
“I do,” he replies, still focused on his task. But something triggers him, and he looks up at me. “You knew I played in college?”
I drop a seed into a hole and cover it up. “You pretty much only wore Keystone State rugby apparel. And your brother had mentioned a time or two that you played together.”
“You ever see one of our games?”
“No.” Though suddenly I’d love to see him running around in those hot little shorts. “Is post-college rugby much different?”
“Kinda.” He lifts his shoulder once and resumes his careful digging. “Less singing, more seriousness. But it’s still fun. Always is.”
“Singing?”
“Yeah, ruggers have a bunch of drinking songs. And team songs. It’s a thing. That’s how Yogi got his name. It’s based on a rugby song about Yogi Bear.”
