She exhales, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
“Yes, sir.”
I ignore that … mostly. I walk a slow circle around the tilled section, looking at the slope, the sunlight, the direction of runoff. It’s a good spot. Better than she realizes.
“You could put raised beds here,” I say. “Run them along the slope. Keep the water from pooling.”
She turns, following my line of sight.
“Raised beds,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
“Like boxes?”
I glance at her.
“Yes. Like boxes.”
She nods slowly, like she’s filing it away.
“Okay. I can do boxes.”
“You’ll need lumber.”
“I know a guy,” she says.
I look at her. She grins. There it is again. That spark. The one that makes it harder than it should be to keep things simple. I shouldn’t get pulled into this. I came here two days ago only to look at the property and give advice. Maybe help her not ruin it. That’s it. That’s all this is.
Rainey steps closer again, looking out over the rest of the yard.
“So if I do this right,” she says, “this could actually work?”
“It will work.”
Confidence steadies people. Rainey needs that. She turns toward me fully now.
“And you’re going to show me how to do all this?”
There it is. The question behind the question. How much are you willing to give? How long are you going to stay? I’ve answered that before. It didn’t end well. I shift my weight, grounding myself before I say something I shouldn’t.
“I’ll show you where to start.”
Not a promise. Not a commitment. Just enough. She studies me like she hears the line I didn’t say out loud. Then she nods once.
“Fair.”
A breeze moves through the trees, lifting a loose strand of her hair across her face. Without thinking, I reach out and brush it back. My fingers graze her temple. Warm, soft skin. She goes still again. So do I. That was a mistake. I drop my hand and step back, getting some distance.
“That’s enough for today,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift.
“We just started.”
“You did.”
I glance at the ground.
