I turn to the rosebush along the fence line. The buds are closed tight against the chill. “My boyfriend saved it all, Thorn,” I whisper softly. “We’ve got reinforcements now.”
Rhys’s head tilts. “Did you say something?”
“Um.” I glance at him, suddenly self-conscious. I should just tell him that I talk to them. But I can’t, not yet. “No.”
I crouch down and focus on fixing the holly beds.
Something unclenches in his jaw, and he looks down. “Are your plants all right?”
I nod, liking that he asks. “Yeah, he didn’t ruin the soil.”
“Good.” Rhys drops to his knees beside me, hisshoulder brushing mine. “What do you need me to do?”
“Help me reset these holly shrubs.” I cradle one gently. “They can’t go too deep, just enough so the root ball sits snug at the surface. Deep enough to hold on, but not so deep it can’t breathe.”
Rhys lets out a strangled, incredulous laugh. “Are you trying to flirt with me?”
“What?” I blink at him, still in plant science mode.
He scrubs a hand over his jaw, cheeks warming. “You keep saying deep like you’re testing me.”
“I am testing you,” I say, nudging a shrub into place. “Depth is everything.”
“Oh, Fallon,” he murmurs, shaking his head as his eyes brim with heat. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
He watches closely, mimicking my movements, and we press the shrubs into the earth together. Our fingertips brush, and a quiet spark jumps between us. Rhys is warm, bright, and full of zest. Touching him sends that familiar hum skittering up my skin.
“The soil is still a bit warm from the summer,” I say, slipping into the rhythm that steadies me. “Shrubs like this need loose, well-drained beds. If the soil gets too compacted, the roots suffocate, but if it’s waterlogged, everything turns to mush. You want steady moisture and good aeration so the root system can establish. And the microbial network will?—”
“Wait,” Rhys cuts in, blinking. “Microbial what?”
“Fungi,” I say brightly. “They form a symbiotic relationship with the root systems. They’re like the gossip columnists of the soil world. They tell the plants who’s sick, who needs help, who’s being shady.”
His mouth twitches. Like he’s trying not to smile. “Fal, you really sound like you know what you’re doing.”
“I do,” I say, swiping a few stray hairs from my eyes. “I thought about writing a book.”
“You should,” he says.
“My father told me I was too stupid to write a whole book,” I murmur.
Rhys’s expression shifts to something sharp and protective.
“Anyone who calls you stupid, has no idea what they’re talking about. And they won’t make that mistaketwicearound me.” He looms over me, and my heart pounds, thinking he’s going to kiss me.
Except, Jack calls out,‘Hello! You gutted me and conscripted me as a plant guardian.’
“Right.” Before things go too far with Rhys, I clap my hands three times. “We’re not done.”
Rhys lifts a brow. “No?”
“We still have to set up Jack.” I remind him.
It was the primary task. That can’t be ignored.
At the mention of the pumpkin, Rhys glances toward the bench where the carved jack-o’-lantern sits, adjusting to his new shape and weight. He looks like a patient little sentinel, but he’s not happy.
Rhys exhales, resigned but amused. “Right. Jack. Where do you want him?”
