Meaning her ex axed it as soon as he realized she would get to spend time away from home, doing things she enjoyed.
To cover the small glitch in her happy moment, she dipped her head and began to sketch out the lines of the perimeter.
“Oh, Crew! You’re just in time.”
At Willow’s voice, Fern looked up.
Right at the cowboy from the hardware store.
The big, muscled, hunky one she’d insulted.
His stare landed on her, and she detected a pause in his gait. Then he seemed to recover from seeing her again too, and crossed the small yard to where she and Willow stood.
“Fern Foster, this is Crew Diaz. Crew, Fern is helping us with the garden project.”
He was just as ruggedly handsome as she remembered, and she was just as off-balance when he pinned her with those dark brown eyes.
“We’ve bumped into each other in town,” she told Willow.
Crew arched a brow. “I thought you only dealt with dead plants.”
The only thing about their encounter that made her smile was the plants she rescued. “I enjoy bringing them back to life. But I like living ones too.”
Willow took in their exchange with a smile on her face. “Sounds like you two will work well together. I’ve got horse therapy in two minutes. Fern, just send me an estimate when you’re ready.”
She barely registered that Willow was leaving her alone with Crew before the woman disappeared around the corner of the lodge.
Shifting her feet, she eyed Crew. “I guess you’re helping me stake out the area.”
When he ran his fingertip along the brim of his hat, she picked up that it could be a sign that he was a little nervous around her too. “I’ll go grab some stakes and string.”
“No need.” She reached for her bag. “I brought what we need.”
Looking a little impressed at her readiness, he watched her set down her notebook in the grass, and proceed to dump out wooden stakes and a ball of twine.
“We’ll need a rubber mallet to pound in the stakes—”
She cut him off midsentence by pulling that out too.
He eyed the tool. “It’s pink.”
“All my tools are pink.”
When he held out a hand, she passed the mallet to him, but not before she noticed small round calluses at the base of each finger. Her insides bunched, and she found her lungs a bit tight.
Catching her gaze, he twitched his head toward the expanse of grass. “Should we start with the perimeter?”
Still a little off-balance over the surge she felt when she saw his rough hands, she nodded. She led the way to the far corner of the grass and glanced around to ensure it was a good starting point.
Pressing the toe of her boot to the spot, she said, “Here.”
As he dropped to one knee—so close that she felt his body heat—her insides tightened again. While he hammered in the stake, she couldn’t look away from the flex of his arm muscles and tendons. And those long, capable fingers wrapped around the pink handle of her mallet looked both ridiculous and hot.
After a few taps, he pushed to his feet. For a brief moment, their gazes locked.
Should she apologize now for her verbal diarrhea back at the hardware store? Or wait until they finished laying out the garden?
“Did you bring a measuring tape?”
