Chapter Two
C allie Morgan could handle plants, people, and pressure. She could even handle chaos, so long as it came with roots and wasn’t wearing aviators and a crooked grin.
The man behind her was too tall, too easygoing, way too handsome, and entirely too observant.
Callie could feel his gaze trailing behind her as if he were taking notes, and not the casual kind.
No, this was trained awareness. The kind that once saved lives and now, apparently, tracked Thai basil with tactical precision.
She kept her pace brisk and her expression neutral. The layout of Morgan Creek Nursery wasn’t fancy, but it worked.
The small retail shop sat at the front, painted a cheerful sage-green with a white tin roof and a bell over the door that jingled with every customer.
Behind it stretched a series of greenhouses, two large, one smaller, connected by gravel paths and shaded by hanging ferns and trellises.
On the side patio, a teenage intern was answering phones between sips of lemonade while Tammy, her part-time cashier, helped a couple choose hanging baskets.
Further back, two field hands—Luis and Jasper—used the skid steer to load mulch into the bed of a waiting pickup.
A wide patio off the back of the shop offered room for displays, repotting benches, and the occasional private break spot.
Beyond that, a weathered split-rail fence marked the edge of the nursery and the start of the old ranch house where she and Maggie had grown up.
As she pushed open the door to the back greenhouse, warm, humid air greeted them, thick with the scent of earth, tomato vines, and marigolds. Rows of raised planting tables stretched across the space, organized in her personal system of chaos that made perfect sense to her…and almost no one else.
“Back row,” she said over her shoulder, weaving around a crate of irrigation fittings and a tray of sunflowers waiting for transplant. “The Thai basil’s next to the lemon verbena.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he muttered, ducking under a hanging fern. “Place smells like the inside of a salad bar.”
She hid a smile. “Glad you didn’t say compost heap. That’s usually what the rookies go with.”
“Give me time. I’m just getting started.”
His voice was low and smooth with a hint of mischief, and Callie did not have the time or brain space for mischief right now. Especially the tall, bicep-flexing, dimple-hiding kind.
She reached the back table, grabbed two trays of Thai basil, and turned, only to find him right behind her, leaning in slightly to get a look. “Planning to supervise the lift or just breathe on it?”
His mouth twitched. “You said don’t touch anything. I’m following orders.”
Smartass. A dangerously charming smartass.
She nudged one of the trays into his hands and held the other herself. “Then let’s get these to your truck before the basil bolts from the humidity, and I toss you in the compost bin for real.”
They walked the length of the greenhouse in companionable silence, save for the squeak of her boots and the hum of the industrial fans.
Outside, the sun had shifted, casting sharp shadows across the gravel path. She loaded her tray into the passenger seat of his truck while he tucked his into the backseat.
When she turned, he was leaning against her side of the truck, sunglasses now hooked on the collar of his shirt, watching her as if she were a puzzle he hadn’t quite solved yet.
“What?” she asked, squinting up at him, then immediately regretted it.
Green eyes.
Of course, he had green eyes. The kind that made a girl forget her to-do list.
“You have a unique way of treating your customers,” he stated with a disarming grin.
Good thing she was immune.
Mostly.
“Only the ones who show up without warning.”
He cocked his head. “Don’t most of them show up without warning?”
Touche.
“Yes, but not like you,” she replied.
“Ah,” he said with a slow grin. “So I’m special.”
Her brows lifted. “That’s one word for it.”
“Callie Morgan,” he said, sticking out a hand now that it was free. “It’s been…an experience.”
She hesitated, then took it. His grip was firm, callused, warm. Too warm.
“Matthew Walker. Remember?” he asked. “I work with Eagle Security, but today I’m Annie’s mission commander.”
She tilted her head. “As you’ve stated. You the muscle or the distraction?”
“Depends on the job.” He winked. “Today? Herb boy.”
“Good,” she said, pulling her hand free. “Then mission accomplished.”
He didn’t step away, not immediately.
Instead, he studied her with that same calm intensity he’d had when she first caught sight of him lurking by the roses. Except now there was something else in his gaze, a flicker of interest that wasn’t tactical in the least.
“You always this bossy,” he asked, “or am I lucky today?”
Callie narrowed her eyes, but her lips twitched. “Depends. You always this curious, or is that reserved for women who hand you herbs?”
“Only the pretty ones who threaten to compost me.”
That earned a laugh she hadn’t meant to let loose and damn it, he noticed. The corner of his mouth lifted enough to flash the dimple he’d been hiding until now.
Sneaky bastard.
“I mean it,” he added, straightening but not backing away. “You run a tight operation. Impressive.”
She blinked. Compliments were fine. Backhanded ones she could shrug off, but this was sincere.
And unexpected.
“Thanks,” she said, after a beat.
“Anytime.” His voice dropped half an octave— pure trouble —as he leaned just slightly forward. “Next time, maybe I’ll come back for lavender. Or a cactus. Something dangerous.”
Callie arched a brow. “Try showing up without acting like you’re casing the joint, and I might let you leave without a chore list.”
He grinned again, slow and easy. “So, you’re saying there’ll be a next time.”
She rolled her eyes, backing toward the greenhouse. “Next time, you deal with my sister. She collects stray animals and people. And she hugs them all.”
He looked visibly alarmed. “Noted.”
But he was still watching her like he didn’t quite want to leave. Like she wasn’t just the woman who’d handed him basil, but someone he wouldn’t mind seeing again for reasons that had nothing to do with herbs.
Callie’s pulse kicked up, so she turned before she smiled and made a fool of herself.
She had work to do.
And no time to dwell on men with observant eyes, tactical reflexes, and the kind of voice that made a girl think dangerous things about greenhouse tables.
Callie ducked back into the greenhouse, her pulse annoyingly jumpy for a man who had shown up asking for herbs and left behind a dimple and the scent of cedar and trouble.
She set the empty tray on a side table, exhaled, and nearly tripped over a lazy pile of golden fluff.
“Sammy,” she muttered, smiling down at the golden retriever mix by her boot. “Where’ve you been? Nate spoiling you again? You’re supposed to be a working dog, not a fluffy mascot.”
Sammy thumped his tail once. Clearly, he disagreed.
She crouched to give his ears a scratch. “Bet he shared his breakfast sandwich too. Traitor.”
A voice drifted in from behind the shed. “Only half. He earned it.”
Callie stood, brushing dirt from her hands as Nate rounded the corner. Ball cap, tan work shirt, and the kind of calm energy that had steadied this place even before her dad got sick.
Nathan Porter had worked at Morgan Creek since she was in middle school.
Her dad had hired him after a chance conversation at the feed store, something about Nate knowing his way around irrigation systems and not being afraid of early mornings.
He’d been a steady presence ever since—part foreman, part plant whisperer, part honorary uncle.
When her dad’s cancer took a turn, it was Nate who quietly took on more without being asked.
Who showed up early and stayed late. Who stood beside her at the funeral without saying a word, offering that solid, grounding presence that never needed to be loud to matter.
She trusted him. More than that, she leaned on him. Not that she’d ever admit it out loud.
“You’re early,” she said.
He shrugged. “You’re always early. Figured I’d try to keep up.”
Nate leaned a hip against the edge of the potting bench, absently tossing a stray twig into the compost bin. “You know that dog’s been asleep near the back break area for over an hour. Didn’t even twitch when the mulch shipment rolled in.”
Callie narrowed her eyes at Sammy, who gave a half-hearted tail thump in response. “Freeloader.”
“He takes after his boss.”
She snorted. “If I’m such a slacker, how come I’ve already reorganized the herb tables, scheduled the next round of shade cloths, and unloaded half a pallet of topsoil?”
Nate raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, I just water things and keep the place from catching fire.”
“Which is why you’re still my favorite.”
Nate lifted a brow. “I’m one of five full-timers. You’re playing favorites now?”
“Only when bribery and flattery are involved.” She shot him a crooked smile. “Which reminds me, I’m still out of lemon bars.”
“You should do something about that.” He smiled and pushed off the bench. “I’m going to go check the back irrigation valve. Pretty sure it’s leaking again.”
“Of course, it is.” She grabbed a tray of seedlings and glanced toward the front lot. “If a new delivery shows up while you're back there, send ‘em my way.”
“Will do,” he said over his shoulder. “And try not to scare this one off.”
“No promises.”
From the front of the nursery, the bell above the shop door jingled, followed by a cheerful voice calling, “I brought scones! And judgment, if you need it!”
Callie groaned and called back, “Tell me it’s blueberry. I’ve had a day.”