‘Isn’t that beautiful.’ Rebecca plants her hands on her hips, today’s set of colourful bangles clinking. She surveys her garden with satisfaction. ‘It’ll be a bounty next summer, just you wait. And this lavender … Jordan, where in the hell’d you learn to farm like this?’
I sit back on my haunches with a contented sigh, dusting dirt from my hands. ‘Home, ma’am. I had a hundred-and-some square feet at home. Was pretty much all we farmed, because other than that, it was ranch land, horses and cattle. It’s therapy, in between work and sports and school. Planted it just for myself, and then it did well to bring in extra cash when tourists came in wanting bundles.’
‘From Oklahoma to Massachusetts,’ remarks Rebecca, crouching down and rubbing some of the soil between her fingers. ‘Adding the sand, that’s how I knew you were serious about this stuff.’
‘Oh, you know it.’ I creep forward to sand the last of the soil in the row, making sure to leave a couple of feet between the patches. ‘Once this starts growing, it’s gonna turn out beautiful. Now, that probably won’t be till next year, but they’ll certainly sprout this summer.’
‘Don’t you worry, I’ll tend to them, and send plenty of photos, of course,’ Rebecca assures me. She moves back to standing and adjusts her white cardigan to sit properly on her shoulders again. ‘Why don’t you come on in once you’ve done the row,hon? I’ve just made the pie. It’s exactly what you could use after a long day’s work.’
‘With—’
‘Gluten free,’ she adds, reading my mind.
I could probably pass out in the dirt from joy. This woman is my new best friend. ‘You are an angel.’
Rebecca disappears back into the house through the sliding glass doors with a happy little chuckle, and I haul myself to my feet at the end of the row of my lavender. I fully wipe my hands off on my jeans to get the dirt out from under my pink painted nails and press a palm to my chest. My heart thuds calmly, evenly beneath it. I’ll admit it, I love my chaos, but I love my quiet, too. It’s not something I got an awful lot of back home, and it’s certainly not something I got since moving to Rhode Island for professional lacrosse. Here, though, I live in a pocket where it’s just me, my lavender, and gluten-free pie. No expectations, no responsibilities, no constant work.
‘Beeeeck!’
A familiar man’s voice cuts through my peace. Seriously? Here?
‘Rebecca? Re—’
Rod stops dead in his tracks when his eyes meet mine from the other side of Rebecca’s garden. He’s still looking at me the same way he did at camp yesterday, as if I’ve sprouted horns and started lowing like one of my mom’s cattle. Because what the hell is up with that? ‘Have you seen Rebecca at all?’
‘Just saw her.’ I raise an eyebrow, mindlessly picking a chunk of dirt out of one of my turquoise rings. ‘She’s inside.’
‘Ah.’
He doesn’t make to go inside. Instead, he crosses the garden,ever so casually strolling his way towards me. I take it back; maybe that sprouted-horns look of his is finally starting to mellow out, but what it’s replaced with makes me even more curious. There’s certainly a degree of incredulousness in his eyes as they quickly sweep me over, taking in the dirt and the gardening bag at my feet.
‘What’d you plant?’
‘Lavender.’ I tug the rapidly slipping ponytail holder from my hair and finger-comb out a knot, snapping the hairband back on my wrist. ‘Don’t think it’ll be ready to harvest for a while, though.’
As I run a hand through that still stubborn knot, I watch as Rod rakes his fingers through his own dark hair, pushing it back ditto to my gesture. I suppress the smile twitching at my lips. Oh, my God. I’ve been around enough college men in the time I spent on the University of Oklahoma City lacrosse team, jumping from campus to campus, to know this well. May used to say that when a guy started doing that at the bar, you knew you would be drinking for free that night. Whether or not he realizes it, the fool’s mirroring me.
My hand freezes in my hair.
Oh. My. God.
‘What’d you need from Rebecca?’ I manage. Two and two are actively starting to make four in my head as this interaction unfolds. There’s no way.
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, clears his throat. ‘Um. Just wanted to grab a slice of pie. Remember?’
‘I thought you didn’t like surprises.’ Now, I’m the one who’s sporting the incredulous look. If this doesn’t confirm it. This fucker is flirting with me. Rodney Wilson is flirting with me.It’s easy to say I’m just seeing things, imagining signs where there are none. To dismiss it as the wandering mind of a girl with her head in the clouds. But I keep thinking of May’s words. That is empirical evidence if I’ve ever seen any.
‘Yeah.’ He clearly didn’t come all this way for pie. Not
that I mind. His strong arms work against his grey T-shirt, a hand moving to scratch his stubbled jaw. Why is this whole flustered thing making himmoreattractive? Since when
was flustered effortlessly sexy? ‘Maybe I can get behind taking that chance. Kind of.’
‘Smooth.’ The smile sneaks out now. I can’t help it. I reach down to grab my gardening bag, but my chivalrous visitor beats me to it, moving so fast I question just how until I remember he’s a lacrosse attacker. He goes for the bag with a muttered, ‘Lemme get that,’ just as I bend down.
We stand at the same time, and I’m about an inch of foot placement from absolutely biting it. My hand instinctively reaches out to find support wherever I can get it, and it evidently chooses Rod’s very solid, very strong chest.
My wide eyes lock on his, and he’s just as surprised as I am. Maybe I’m the problem, but he’s not exactly innocent, either. One of his hands must’ve flown to catch my stumble, because it sits at my hip, just below the belt loop of my jeans. Warm, strong, and exceptionally steady. His gaze doesn’t leave mine. His long eyelashes flutter, and the sun illuminates the pale brown flecks in his eyes like they’re made of liquid bronze.
