Chapter 7
Troy
Sunday morning, and I've been awake since five-thirty, staring at my ceiling like it holds answers. It doesn't.
What it does hold is the knowledge that Ainsley is on the other side of this wall, still sleeping after her Saturday night shift, and I need to figure out how to navigate the next few hours without scaring her off or breaking every single one of her rules.
The problem is, I don't want to follow the rules anymore.
I want to touch her. I want to know what makes her laugh when she's not stressed about rent or ex-friends or drunk assholes at the bar. I want to see her in that garden she's so protective of, the one she treats like it's the only thing in the world that won't let her down.
And I want her to let me in.
I roll out of bed, pull on jeans and a T-shirt, and head to the kitchen. Coffee first. Strategy second.
By the time Ainsley shuffles out of her room an hour later, I've already downed two cups and made a plan that's either brilliant or idiotic. The jury's still out.
She's wearing those sleep shorts again—the dangerously short ones—and an oversized hoodie that swallows her whole. Her hair's piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and there are pillow creases on her cheek.
She's perfect.
"Morning," I say, keeping my voice low.
She startles, hand flying to her chest. "God. I didn't know you were up."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
"It's fine. I just..." She trails off, gaze landing on the coffee pot. "Is there coffee?"
"Fresh pot. Made it ten minutes ago."
Her entire face softens. "You're a saint."
Not even close, I think, watching her pour herself a mug and add enough creamer to turn it pale brown. Saints don't spend half the night thinking about their roommate's legs and voluptuous ass.
She takes a sip, eyes closing in what looks like genuine pleasure, and I have to look away before I do something stupid.
"So," I start, leaning against the counter. "I was thinking."
Her eyes open, suspicious. "About?"
"Your garden."
She goes still, mug halfway to her lips. "What about it?"
"I know it's off-limits," I say. "But I was wondering if you'd let me help. Just for today."
"Help," she repeats.
"Yeah. You tell me what to do, and I do it. No questions, no improvising. I follow orders." I pause, meeting her gaze. "Remember, I'm good at that."
Her cheeks flush, and I know she's thinking about Tuesday morning in this exact spot, when I tested every one of her boundaries and made her spell out what counted as flirting.
"I don't know," she says, voice uncertain. "The garden's kind of my thing."
"I get that. But it's also a lot of work for one person, and you've been pulling double shifts since Thursday. Let me help."
She studies me for a long moment, teeth worrying her bottom lip. I can see the war happening behind her eyes—control versus exhaustion, fear versus curiosity.
She exhales. "Okay. But you have to do everything I say. No deviating. No deciding you know better."
"Yes, ma'am."
Her eyes narrow. "I'm serious, Troy."
"So am I." I straighten, crossing my arms. "You're in charge. I'm just the muscle."
She takes another sip of coffee, hiding what might be a smile. "Fine. Give me twenty minutes to get dressed."
Twenty-three minutes later, we're standing in the backyard, and Ainsley has transformed.
Gone is the sleepy, uncertain woman from the kitchen. Out here, she's confident. Focused. Her hands move over the plants with a kind of reverence that makes something tighten in my chest.
"We're starting with weeding," she says, pulling on a pair of worn gardening gloves. "Then we'll water, check for pests, and if there's time, I want to stake the new tomato plants."
"Got it."
She hands me a pair of gloves—too small, but I make them work—and points to the bed closest to the fence. "Start there. Pull anything that's not a vegetable or an herb. If you're not sure, ask."
"Yes, ma'am."
We work in silence for a while. The morning sun spreads warmth on my back, the smell of earth and growing things filling the air. It's peaceful. Grounding. Work that doesn't require thinking, just doing.
Ainsley moves between the rows, murmuring to the plants like they can hear her. Maybe they can. I've seen stranger things.
I'm pulling what I'm ninety percent sure is a weed when she speaks.
"My grandmother taught me how to garden."
I glance up. She's kneeling a few feet away, hands buried in the soil, gaze distant.
"Yeah?"
"She raised me. Single grandmother, tight budget, no room for extras." Ainsley pulls a weed free and tosses it into the bucket beside her. "But she always had a garden. Said it was cheaper than therapy and more reliable than people."
I say nothing. Just wait.
"She loved it," Ainsley continues, voice softer now. "She'd spend hours out here talking to the tomatoes, fussing over the basil. She said plants don't lie. They don't take your money and disappear. If you take care of them, they take care of you."
"Sounds like a smart woman."
"She was." Ainsley sits back on her heels, brushing dirt off her hands.
"She died two years ago. Left me the house, but it needed a lot of work and we were in the process of fixing it up.
We had to take out a mortgage in both our names on the home so we could fix it up.
Then she passed. That's how I ended up with Kelsey. "
The name lands like a stone.
"My ex-best friend," Ainsley clarifies, though I already knew.
"We were tight in high school. She was fun, spontaneous, everything I wasn't. When Grandma died and I needed help with the house, Kelsey offered to move in.
We'd split expenses, fix the place up together, save for this big trip to Europe we'd been dreaming about since we were sixteen. "
She pulls another weed, harder this time.
"I worked at a nursery. I loved it. It didn't pay much, but I was happy. Kelsey worked retail, complained constantly, but we made it work. We opened a joint account for bills and the trip fund. I put every spare dollar in there."
I can see where this is going, and I hate it.
"One day, I came home, and she was gone. No note, no explanation. Just... gone. And so was every cent in that account."
Her voice doesn't waver, but her hands do. Just a little.
"How much?" I ask.
"Almost twelve thousand dollars." She laughs, bitter and sharp. "I know that's not a fortune to some people, but to me? That was everything. My emergency fund, the trip fund, three months of mortgage, utilities, and car payments. Gone. Poof."
"Did you report it?"
"Tried. Cops said it was a civil matter since her name was on the account too. Technically, she didn't steal—she just withdrew her share." Ainsley's mouth twists. "Never mind that I deposited ninety percent of it."
I grip the weed in my hand so hard the roots snap.
"Anyway," she continues, brushing her hands on her jeans. "I couldn't afford to work at the nursery anymore. I needed something that paid better, fast. Simon offered me the bartending job, and I couldn't say no. More money, plus tips. It's not what I wanted, but it keeps the lights on."
"And the garden?" I ask.
She looks around, expression softening. "This is all I have left of her. Of Grandma. So yeah, it's off-limits. Because if I lose this too..." She doesn't finish the sentence.
She doesn't have to.
I set down the weed I was holding and move closer, kneeling beside her in the dirt. "You won’t lose it."
"You don't know that."
"I do." I meet her eyes, holding her gaze. "Because you're the most stubborn, determined person I've ever met. You made a five-page rule sheet with footnotes and color-coded the bathroom cabinet. You're not letting this garden go anywhere."
Her lips twitch. "You think I'm stubborn?"
"I think you're a fighter." I pause. "And I think your grandmother would be proud as hell of you."
Her breath catches, and for a second I think she might cry. But then she blinks hard and looks away, fingers curling into the soil.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"For what?"
"For not making me feel stupid about any of this."
"You're not stupid, Ainsley. You're careful. There's a difference."
She glances at me, something unreadable in her expression. Then she clears her throat and stands, brushing dirt off her knees. "Come on. We still have half of the bed to weed."
We work side by side for another hour, and slowly, she talks again.
She tells me about her favorite plant, which is a stubborn heirloom tomato that refuses to grow, but she keeps trying anyway because Grandma loved the variety.
How she accidentally killed an entire row of basil and cried for twenty minutes.
And how she dreams of owning a nursery someday, a small one, where she can help people grow things and not have to deal with drunk assholes grabbing her.
I listen to all of it. Memorize the way her voice lifts when she talks about propagating cuttings. The way she bites her lip when she's deciding where to plant something new.
And then she asks, "What about you?"
I glance up from the tomato plant I'm staking. "What about me?"
"You know everything about me now. My grandma, my terrible ex-friend, my plant obsession. What's your story?"
I tie off the stake and sit back, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Not much to tell."
"Bullshit." She grins. "Come on. Fair's fair."
I exhale. "Alright. I got shot."
Her hands go still. "What?"
"Overseas. Took a round to the shoulder during a patrol." I roll my left shoulder without thinking, feeling the tightness that never quite goes away. "It wasn't life-threatening, but it was bad enough that they medically discharged me."
"Troy..." Her voice is soft. Careful.
"Fourteen years in the Army," I continue. "It was all I knew. And suddenly, I was out. No plan, no direction. My dad died while I was deployed, so I didn't even have a home to go back to."
"I'm sorry."
I shrug. "He was a single dad. Did his best. We had little, but he made sure I had what I needed. When he died, I was halfway around the world and couldn't even make it to the funeral on time."
Ainsley's hand lands on my arm, warm and grounding. I look down at it, then up at her.
"That's awful," she says.
"Yeah." I swallow hard. "After I got out, I didn't know what to do with myself. I worked in construction before the Army—loved building things, working with my hands. So I figured maybe I could do that again."
"And Levi and Kevin convinced you to come here."
"Pretty much. They talked about Evergreen Lakes as if it were some kind of small-town paradise. Figured I had nothing to lose."
"And now?"
I hold her gaze and smile. "Now I'm glad I came."
Her breath hitches, and I watch her pulse flutter in her throat. We're close—closer than we've been since that morning in the kitchen. Close enough that I can see the flecks of green in her blue eyes, the faint dusting of freckles across her nose.
"Ainsley," I start, voice rough.
"Yeah?"
"I need to tell you something."
She swallows. "Okay."
"I'm not good at this. Talking about feelings or whatever. But I need you to know..." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to worry about me bailing or screwing you over. I'm here. For as long as you'll let me stay."
Her eyes go wide, and I can see the exact moment she understands what I'm saying.
"Troy—"
"Just think about it," I say. "That's all I'm asking."
She nods slowly, and we go back to working. But the air between us has shifted. Charged.
An hour later, we're almost done. Ainsley's kneeling in front of the last row of plants, hair escaping her ponytail in damp curls, dirt smudged on her cheek. She's frowning at the pepper plant as if it offended her.
"What's wrong?" I ask, crouching beside her.
"This one's not getting enough water. See how the leaves are drooping?" She brushes her fingers over the plant, gentle and careful.
"Show me."
She leans closer, pointing to the base of the plant. "Water right here, at the roots. Not the leaves. If you get the leaves wet, they can burn in the sun or develop mold."
I'm barely listening because she's so close, I can smell her—citrus and sugar and something earthy from the garden. Her shoulder brushes mine, and heat shoots through me like a live wire.
"Troy?"
"Yeah. Roots. Got it."
She glances up, and our faces are inches apart. Her lips part, and I watch her gaze drop to my mouth.
Do it, I think. Just close the distance and—
"Hand me the watering can?" she says, voice breathless.
I pass it to her, and our fingers brush. She inhales sharply, and I know she feels it too. This pull. This ache.
She waters the plant, hands shaking, then sets the can down and sits back on her heels.
"That's it," she says. "We're done."
"Good." I stand, offering her my hand.
She takes it, and I pull her to her feet. But she doesn't let go. Just stands there, looking up at me, dirt on her face and sunlight in her hair.
"Thank you," she breathes. "For helping. For listening. For... everything."
"Anytime."
We're still holding hands. I can feel her pulse racing against my palm, see the rise and fall of her chest.
"Troy," she whispers.
"Yeah?"
"I—"
She doesn't finish. Just steps closer, rising on her toes, and I know what's about to happen. I can see it in her eyes, feel it in the way her hand tightens around mine.
I lower my head, my free hand coming up to cup her cheek—
And she pulls away.
"I can't," she says, stumbling back a step. "I'm sorry. I just—I can't."
"Ainsley—"
"I need to go inside." Her voice is shaking now. "I need to... I'll see you later."
She turns and runs into the house, leaving me standing alone in the garden with dirt under my nails and frustration coiling tight in my chest.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the back door. Then I exhale hard and drag a hand through my hair.
Okay, I think. That's it.
I've been patient. I've followed her rules, kept my distance, let her set the pace. But this? This circling around each other, this almost-but-not-quite, this fear holding her back?
It ends now.
If I don't make a proper move. Don’t show her that this thing between us is worth the risk, then we're going to keep dancing around it forever. And I didn't survive fourteen years in the Army and a bullet just to spend the rest of my life wondering what if.
Tomorrow, I'm done waiting.
Tomorrow, I'm going to show Ainsley Boothe what she means to me.
And this time, I'm not letting her run.