“Pick some out. The front gardens are a mess. You can fill them up.” My heart skips a beat as excitement floods me.
“Really?” I ask hesitantly, trying to play is cool.
“I don’t see why not. I want it to look nice, but I don’t see myself prioritizing flowers anytime soon, much less even knowing which ones to plant.” He looks beyond me at the garden center. “You’d actually be doing me a favor. I figured I’d have to hire a landscaping firm to do it, but you can try your hand at it if you’d like.”
“Oh my god!” I say, then, without thinking, I lean in, wrapping my arms around his neck, hugging him tight. He’s still for a moment, then relaxes, an arm moving loosely around my waist in a sideways hug. When I step back, I clap excitedly, nearly unable to contain myself before I get it in check, but when I look back at him, his eyes are soft, his lips tipped up in a way I’ve never seen on him, but in a way that looks really, really good on him. I take it in for long moments, trying to calm the haphazard beating of my chest before I finally look away and start loading up on flowers.
“Those flowers match your shirt almost perfectly,” he says, looking over at me an hour later as we walk out into the parking lot with our haul: what I have to think is a literal ton of paver stones and a big bag of setting sand, four different hydrangea bushes, two roses, and a flat of cone flowers in various colors. I’m going to research more flowers that would do well in thisarea before we have to make another trip here, but this should keep me busy for a while.
Today I’m in one of the two colorful sports tank tops that I bought, this one a pretty, vibrant pink. When I look down, I realize he’s right: the coneflowers I’ve picked out are almost the same color, nearly blending into my top.
“You’re right,” I say with a laugh. He continues to navigate the heavy cart with minimal effort, eyes taking me in as he does.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything colorful outside of events and tour.”
An unexpected thrill runs through me at the idea of him noticing things about me, the thought of him taking note of what I wear and when. Quickly, as I’ve taught myself to do with Leo, I tamp it down and look at it from a logical standpoint: he’s my publicist. He’s probably seen, inspected, and approved more photos of me than anyone else. He’s seen every tabloid photo, perfectly curated by Jackie with my cool-girl outfits, complimentary neutrals, and cool colors. Of course, he would notice if I started wearing brighter colors outside of that normal brand.
“My streetwear is curated to be trendy. Neutrals and whites and blacks are trendy and the most flattering, so it’s what I wear.”
“Where’d you get that one?” I hope that the blush burning on my cheeks can be explained away by the summer heat emanating off the blacktop.
“I bought a few things a few weeks ago myself, trying to reflect the album vibes so I could get inspired.” I lick my lips, trying not to overthink and overspeak instead. “Jackie would very much not approve, but no one is hounding me here, so I figured…” Nerves rush through me as I try to interpret his words, to see if he means that he prefers the other aesthetic, or if he’s just taking note of things and making small talk. He doesn’tspeak when my words fade out, just reaches into his pocket for the keys to his car, clicking the locks and popping the trunk. Then, he starts moving things in quickly and efficiently. But when he reaches for the flowers I’m still awkwardly holding, he holds my eyes.
“It looks good on you. Color. You look nice, Willa.” Then, completely unaware of how my pulse is pounding, he starts loading up the car before handing me the keys and telling me to start it and get the AC going.
And when I go home and place a new clothing order filled with pinks, purples, and blues, I tell myself it’s just because I want more color in my life.
Definitely not because Leo Sinclaire said they looked nice on me.
On Friday, Leo is watering a patch of grass seed he laid down with a hose, and I walk towards him with my watering can. He mentioned eventually adding an automatic watering system, but for now, I don’t mind watering the plants I added to his landscaping.
“Need some?” he asks, tipping his chin towards the bucket in my hands, and I nod. Today, he’s in a light blue tee that, once again, hugs every single inch and a pair of dark gray loose shorts. His sneakers are stained green from mowing the lawn, and there’s a dark blue Atlas Oaks hat shielding his eyes from the beating sun. He hands me the hose, and I drop the end into the bucket, waiting for it to fill.
“How’s that going?” I ask, tipping my chin to the patch of hay lying over the grass he put down. He reaches up, takes off hishat, and pushes his hair back once more before setting it on his head.
“We’ll see in a few weeks, I guess. I should have put it down a lot earlier, but it wasn’t my priority. Hoping that if I keep it watered, the seeds will sprout and I’ll be in business.” I nod as if I know exactly what he’s talking about, but I’m far too distracted by the way he’s lifting the bottom hem of his shirt up to his face to wipe off the sweat. I catch the bottom of his toned stomach, the light dusting of hair that leads down below his waist.
A laugh breaks me out of my daze, and my eyes shoot up to his face, entertained and pleased.
“You good?”
“Huh?”
“You were staring,” he says, that grin widening.
“No, I wasn’t,” I lie, rolling my eyes and looking back down to the half-full watering can. Mygod, could it go any slower? I desperately need to get out of here.
“You absolutely were.”
I look back up at him.
“If I was, which I absolutely was not, but if I was, it was because you were flashing the whole world.”
“Flashing the world?” he asks with a laugh, and I can’t help but smile. Leo laughing feels sacred, rare, and something I strive to hear more often.
“I think you were just stunned by my killer abs.”
Without even really thinking, I bend, putting my finger over the opening of the hose, then lift it in Leo’s direction, spraying him with it. I divert the hose’s direction back to the watering can, the long stream loudly filling the watering can as he stands there with a shocked look on his face.
