“Sure.” He tips his baseball hat and turns toward the road.
“Noah!” I call after him.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t have your number.”
“Oh.” Then with a slight smile, “So is this you awkwardly trying to ask for it?”
I blush. “I—maybe. I mean, yes. But in a very professional, plant-care-related context.”
“Got it.” He pulls out his phone. “Strictly botanical.”
I grin, finally. “Exactly.”
He rattles off his number, and I punch it into my phone, labeling himNoah—Mail/Fennel. That feels safe. Distant. Appropriate.
He gives a small wave as he walks back to his truck. “See you around, Birdie.”
And I’m left on the porch, holding a box of something I don’t remember ordering and the phone number of a man who’s not my husband.
______________
It didn’t take me long to text him. I can’t back out of the dare, which was a date. Not just getting a number, and I already know that making this to count as a date will be a far stretch.
The clippers make that satisfying snip each time Noah lops off another dead bloom, his forearms flexing with every motion. I’m pretending to be helpful by carrying the bucket of trimmings, but let’s be honest. He’s doing all the work.
What is it about a man doing yard work? The primal sweat? The dirt smudges on his forearm? The quiet grunt when he shifts his weight to reach a stubborn branch? The way his fingers,strong and sure, navigate the thorns without flinching? It’s like my subconscious is trying to send my confused perimenopausal hormones over the edge with every glance.
And then, just as predictably, the wave crashes in: Owen, standing in this very spot, nurturing the plants, singing some offline version of Johnny Cash, excited over what butterflies will stop here. Guilt spreads in my chest like the plant’s roots, deep and stubborn.
“You okay?” Noah turns in time to catch me staring.
“Yep. Appreciating your technique.” I gesture vaguely in the direction of the bush, mortified.
Noah smirks, and I feel another wave of heat wash over my cheeks. I guess I could’ve skipped applying blush to my pre-non-date make-up regime.
Noah wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, fingers still wrapped around the pruning shears. “You’ve been neglecting these guys.”
I cross my arms and squint at the thorns. “I’ve been a little busy trying to patch my life back together after my husband died of a brain aneurysm in this garden.”
Great. Now I’m oversharing.
Noah doesn’t answer. And like I always seem to do around him, I barrel ahead. “They were always Owen’s responsibility, and they remind me too much of him.”
I can see the fluffy white clouds reflected in the crystal clear sea blue of his eyes. “Fair enough.”
I glance down, straightening the delicate gold watch on my wrist, trying to appear casual. “It’s getting a little late. Would you like to come in for a bite to eat?”
Noah stands, dusting the dirt off his fitted blue jeans. “I never turn down an offer for free food.” It’s clear most of the mud isn’t going to come off. “But maybe we could eat it on the porch?”
The image of my cozy screened-in back patio fills my mind. Owen and I had hung the lights together, and I had potted and cared for fresh herbs in the raised beds he made for me. Howwould it feel to share dinner with someone else onourpatio? Realizing that the silence has stretched too long, I quickly paste on a smile. “I hope you like lasagna.” I move toward the front door.
“Only if it’s burnt around the edges.” I can feel Noah’s presence behind me, firm and sure.
I lead the way through the front door, kicking off my shoes instinctively before remembering Noah might not follow suit. But when I glance back, he’s already toeing off his boots by the mat.
“Bathroom’s second door down the hall on the left. Take your time. I’ll serve the food!” I call, already moving toward the kitchen.
