Fifteen
Mia
I ’ ve always been a firm believer that gardening is overrated. Who wants to spend their Sunday sweating in the dirt when they
could be washing down waffles with a mimosa on a patio or curled up indoors with a good book by a bay window overlooking said
garden?
Not that I don’t appreciate the beauty of gardens, but I never saw the appeal of doing it myself. Turns out it’s even worse
than I feared. Not only is this a ton of work, but it’s painful, too.
I bend to grab a branch to haul away and am rewarded by the jab of a thistle hidden in the tangle. Shaking my stinging hand,
I glance around to see if anyone noticed, but the other volunteers are all busy with their own tasks, laughing and making
small talk like this is a walk in the park.
A future park, maybe, but right now the vacant lot is a mess. I’m glad it’s being cleaned up, but less glad that I’m the one
who signed up to do it. I send a silent apology to all my characters who I put through fish-out-of-water situations.
I knew I would be outside my depth physically but figured this would be better than a trope that put me in over my head emotionally.
Big miscalculation. Technically, we’re encouraged to take breaks whenever we feel the need, according to the person who checked me in.
But my competitive streak has me wanting to keep up with all the other volunteers.
Gavin got pulled away the moment we arrived, and since we were late, I jumped in with a group who was pulling weeds. I immediately
got scolded by one of the older volunteers for not yanking out the roots—I wasn’t given a tutorial, but she acted like it
was common sense—and after ten minutes of struggling to dig out the root of a single giant weed and breaking two nails, I
slunk away when no one was looking and joined the people hauling branches to the curb.
My arms are stinging from the prickly bushes, but I’ve done my best to keep up, which means no chance to join in the conversation
around me. My throat is dry, and I regret leaving my tumbler in Gavin’s truck. I noticed water bottles in the tent during
sign-in, but I’m trying to brave it out until lunchtime.
In front of me, a guy is struggling to drag a huge branch, and I jog over to help. He smiles his thanks and together we haul
it across the lot. But when we set it down, a twig catches in my hair. I twist my head, trying to get loose, and reach around,
feeling blindly for the spot that’s snared. My head is tilted upward, and I squint against the sting of the bright midday
sun.
The guy must not have noticed my plight because no offer of assistance comes. Just as well. I’d rather not have any witnesses
to this embarrassing moment. I bend my knees, hoping to create slack, but the twig yanks at my roots. “Ow!”
“Here, let me,” an unfamiliar voice says. I’m not in the position to be picky over my rescuer, so I hold still, thankful for
the help. “You’re Mia, right?”
Oh no. Please tell me this isn’t a fan. I don’t get recognized often but it would be just my luck to have it happen when I’m at the mercy of a nefarious twig. A rosy-cheeked face appears in front of me, framed by flyaway tendrils of light red hair. “I’m Riley by the way. Gavin and I work together.”
Ah, so that’s how she knows me. “The trivia queen,” I say, and smile.
She gives a little laugh. “Doesn’t say much considering the level of competition, but I’ll take it.” Another small tug, and
she drops her hand, stepping back. “You’re free.”
“Thanks.” I pat my scalp to ease the pain and try not to think of how my hair must look. Should’ve worn a scarf. Yet another
misstep.
Riley is giving me an appraising look, hands on her broad hips. “Wanna stick with me for a while?”
I give her a grateful nod. At least she knows what she’s doing.
Heading off toward the tent, she gestures for me to follow. “First stop, water.”
I take it back. Gardening has one redeeming quality. The sheer physical effort involved makes dwelling on emotional stress
impossible. Normally I would be questioning what the heck I was thinking when I flirted with Gavin earlier—without even the
excuse of a trope test to fall back on—but struggling to keep up with Riley and the others has taken all my focus.
Anytime I feel worry creeping up over how I’m going to resolve things now that Sydney and Victor are a couple or shame blossoming
for how I flirted with Gavin less than an hour after calling a time-out on the trope tests, I just yank out another weed.
Riley showed me the bin of gloves set aside for volunteers and gave me a special shovel that makes it a lot easier.
At home, my mind would be spinning over the way Gavin’s touch affected me, but out here I’ve been too busy to even keep track
of where he’s at.
Digging in the dirt is cathartic, and I’m actually enjoying myself right now, in spite of my sweaty face and grime-caked knees. I definitely regret changing out of my new jeans when I saw the forecast, but the upside is feeling the slight relief of the breeze on my bare legs.
The other thing making this work tolerable is Riley. Gavin’s been pulled away by one person after another since we arrived,
but she’s kept me entertained with gossip and snippets about her life. I have the sneaking suspicion she’s my self-appointed
babysitter, but the steady flow of conversation is another thing taking my mind off the twenty bazillion lines Gavin and I
crossed this morning.
Riley does in fact have a chainsaw, and looked incredibly badass using it, protective goggles and all, but she’s finished
cutting down what I expertly identify as a tree-bush hybrid, and we’re hauling the branches to a giant pile by the curb.
“Did you respond?” I’ve only known her for a couple hours, but already I’m fully invested in the latest escapade of her entitled
sister-in-law, who apparently counts the presents at birthday parties and sent a strongly worded text to the family group
about how her beloved child got one less present than his cousin in the same calendar year.
Riley flashes me a grin. Her freckled cheeks are flushed, septum piercing twinkling in the bright sun. “I asked if she’d accounted
the local sales tax increase that went into effect on May first.”
“Wait, what tax increase?”
“The one she probably wasted at least twenty minutes googling before she realized I made it up.”
I snort out a laugh. “Your poor parents, having to deal with that kind of pettiness.”
“Oh, don’t worry. They can hold their own. My mom told her maybe the other one got lost in the mail, along with her own birthday
present from my sister-in-law.”
Dropping the branch, I try not to wince at the ache in my palms. “Remind me not to cross any of you.”
Without making a big deal of it, Riley tosses the limb farther up onto the pile.
“It’s our way of letting her know we’re not going to let this kind of stuff slide.
But I don’t mind too much because her antics make for the best stories.
” Her pale green eyes are glinting with mischief, and I recognize the joy she gets from storytelling.
Exactly how I’ve always felt, until this book.
Ironic that the story that started it all might be my undoing. I won’t let it be without a fight. That’s why I’m here in the
scorching sun, sweaty and dirt-streaked and entirely out of my element. I’ll do whatever it takes to get into the writing
mindset.
The cotton gloves aren’t much protection and my hands feel raw from the rough bark, but I turn to go fetch another load and
nearly bump into Gavin. It’s the first time we’ve run into each other since we arrived, and I’m struck again by how good he
looks in the lightweight long-sleeve tee and dirt-scuffed jeans.
“When was your last water break?” he asks.
Riley steps up alongside me. “Ever the foreman, huh? We’re not even on the clock, and you’re checking up on us?”
He shakes his head, mouth in a firm line, but she cuts him off. “To answer your question, we stopped for water ten minutes
ago.”
Ignoring this, he frowns at my hands. “Where’d you get those gloves?”
“They’re handing them out at the sign-in table.” I tug one off, wanting to get some fresh air on my hot skin.
“Let me see,” he says. He catches my wrist in his hand, gently, but the touch sparks sensations I’ve spent the morning burying.
Turning my palm upward, he lifts his sunglasses to get a better look, but I yank my arm away, feeling like a new recruit and
stubbornly wanting to earn my keep, even though we’re all volunteers.
“I’m fine.” I lace my fingers behind my back, gritting my teeth against the sting of tender skin.
To my surprise, he tugs at the fingers of his leather glove, one by one, then takes it off and hands it to me.
I pass it right back. “I don’t want your sweaty glove.”
“It will protect you better than those cheap fabric ones they bought in bulk for the volunteers.”
“Then it’s hardly fair that I get a better deal.”
He rolls his eyes. It’s pretty cute, to be honest. “I don’t have enough for everyone. Not that anyone else would want to wear
my gloves.”
“We have that in common, then, because no way am I putting my fingers in those sweat-soaked gloves. Is leather even washable?”
He glares at me, blue eyes icy, but finally relents and walks off toward the tree line at the back of the property, shaking
his head.
Riley lets out a quiet huff of laughter, and I turn toward her. “Would you have worn them?”
She shrugs. “Bodily fluids don’t really give me the ick. Now, don’t get me started on the texture of mushy grapes. But sweat?
I wouldn’t be in the right profession if I minded a little perspiration. We should probably grab a sandwich, though, or we’ll
be left with tuna salad.”
At the tent, she gets pulled into conversation by another volunteer, and I grab a sandwich and chips and eat in the shade
with a few others, then toss out my trash. Realizing I misplaced my gloves, I go to fetch a new pair.