“That’s usually what we do here.”
“I kept a basil plant alive for almost a month once.”
“Almost?”
“It died under mysterious circumstances.”
“Did you water it?”
“I don’t appreciate this line of questioning.”
Zane looked down at the clipboard, and this time he did smile. It wasn’t big or polished-friendly. It was quick, rough, and gone fast enough that I wanted to chase it, which was a terrible instinct to have about a man who controlled whether my hours counted.
He clicked the pen. “We’ll keep you away from the herbs.”
“That seems wise.”
He hung the clipboard back on its hook and reached past me for a pair of work gloves from a bin.
I could’ve stepped away. A normal person would have stepped away.
Instead, I stood there while his arm came close enough that I caught the smell of him under the shed’s dusty cedar: cleansweat, pine, soap, and sun-warmed cotton. My breath snagged again, softer this time, and I stared very hard at a coil of orange twine like twine had become a matter of urgent civic interest.
Zane pulled back with the gloves and held them out. “Use these.”
I looked down at my pristine little gloves. “I brought some.”
“I know.”
“They’re floral.”
“I saw.”
“They have reinforced fingertips.”
“They have daisies on them.”
“Daisies can be fierce.”
“Not against thistles.”
I took the gloves from him. They were gray leather, soft from use, and slightly too big. When I slid my fingers inside, I felt ridiculous and steadier at the same time.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’ll need water too. Did you bring any?”
I hesitated.
His eyes narrowed a fraction.
“I brought coffee,” I said.
“Coffee isn’t water.”
“It contains water.”
“So does mud.”
