I pulled a tray over to her. “Put them in here. You’ll have to replant them later.”
We spent the next hour on our hands and knees in the dirt. I worked in silence, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She was careful now, her hands surprisingly gentle as she tuckedthe seedlings back into their cells. She was talking to them under her breath—little apologies, telling them they were brave little plants.
It was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever seen. It was also the most endearing.
I had a sudden, completely unwelcome image of her talking to my plants every morning like that. Of her being here next season. And the one after.
I picked up another seedling and didn’t think about it again.
Or tried to.
By the time we finished, Poppy was covered in more soil than the trays were. She stood up, brushing her hands on her leggings, which only served to highlight the curve of her bottom.
“Lunch,” I said, standing up and towering over her.
“I’m fine, I’ll just keep working to make up for—”
“It wasn’t a question, Poppy. You need to eat, and I need you out of this greenhouse before you knock over the roof.”
She let out a small, huffy laugh. “Fine. I’ll go back to the cabin and grab my... snacks.”
“What snacks?” She hesitated, her gaze shifting and I had a bad feeling. “I have crackers. And some granola bars. I think.”
I cursed under my breath. “Crackers aren’t lunch.” I caught her by the arm. I didn’t squeeze, but I made sure she felt the strength in my hand the heat of my palm bleeding through her sleeve. “Come to the house. I put on some chili this morning. It’s better than a damn granola bar.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Come on, Poppy.” She followed me reluctantly.
My kitchen was functional. I cooked because I had to eat and because my father had taught me that a man who couldn’t feed himself was a man who’d given up a basic piece of his own dignity. It wasn’t anything special—chili I’d put in the slow cooker this morning and cornbread from yesterday.
Poppy sat at my kitchen table and looked around the way she looked at everything—openly, taking it in, like she’d decided the world was information and she was going to collect as much of it as possible.
“You cook,” she said. It wasn’t quite a question.
“Everyone has to eat.”
“My mother’s idea of dinner was cereal or whatever the man she was dating felt like making.” She said it lightly, the way people say things that aren’t light at all when they’ve had enough time to practice. “I can do maybe four things in a kitchen. Five if you count toast.”
“Toast isn’t cooking.”
“Tell that to the toast.”
That made me smile, but I didn’t let her see. The more brooding I did appear the easier it was to keep her at arm’s length. I needed to do that despite what my mind was telling me.
I sat down across from her, the table between us feeling like the only thing keeping me from leaning over and finding out if her mouth tasted as sweet as she looked.
She ate like she hadn’t seen food in a week. No lady-like picking at the edges. She dove in, finishing the bowl and looking at the pot like she wanted a second.
“Help yourself,” I said.
She got up and served herself without being asked twice, which I respected.
We ate without talking much, which suited me. She didn’t seem to need to fill the silence the way some people did—the way I’d found most people did, like quiet was something to be fixed. She just sat in it with me, eating her chili, looking out the window at the tree line.
“I’ll go to town tomorrow,” she said finally. “Get groceries. I’m sorry, I should have done it before I came up. I just—” She stopped.
“Just?”
