Chapter Twelve
Maybe it was the night I spent dancing or maybe I’m just clicking in, but by the following Monday afternoon, I’ve reworked my publicity plan and am feeling rather hopeful about this fresh new start where my grannies work with and not against me.
In fact, one of the best parts of my Friday night date was coming home to find they’d waited up for me and wanted me to spill.
When Wanda sat up and patted the cushion next to her, I quickly settled in before casting a smile at Rita, allowing the joy I felt when I let myself sink into the salsa dancing shine through.
“You should’ve seen the way the dress shimmered beneath the lights in the club. ”
“Did he spin you around the floor?” she asks, perking up, a dreamy expression softening her features. “Did he make you feel like a hot-blooded woman?”
“Yes, yes he did.” I bob my head, unable to keep my grin from curving my lips, and they all sigh. “He’s a very good dancer. He told me about how, as one of the few boys in a family full of women, he had to also be the practice partner, isn’t that cute?”
Wanda clasps a hand to her heart, a wide grin on her face as she gives a squeal. “See, we knew it’d be good for you to get out and have some fun with someone your own age.”
Technically speaking, I did have fun.
Actually, any form of speaking, I had a blast. I felt younger and zippier despite all the dancing, exhausted but also recharged, not drained.
It was also the first evening I hadn’t spent fixated on my dismal career status in weeks.
“He dipped me, too, so low I was sure I’d fall, but the next thing I knew, I was back in his strong arms.”
I release a sigh, swooning despite myself, then reach across the arm of the couch to squeeze Rita’s hand. “We did you and Rafael proud, I promise.”
“Gracias, Mia mija,” she says, gripping me back with surprising strength. “It does my heart good to see that dress on you and recall my years of dancing on a stage. Makes me feel young again, if only for a night.”
There was such gratitude and joy on her face, not only from Rita but Wanda and Grandma Helen as well, that I decided if living out their regrets came along with a high like that… Well, I’m happier than ever I have so many grandmas.
Bonus, it’d made my Monday morning feel less daunting, but like most afternoons, I’m still in need of caffeine.
I stroll across the courtyard, an extra skip in my step at not having any half-naked protesters barring my way. Turns out I parked at the backside of the building my first day, and as I climb the cement steps and push inside, my pulse skids at the idea of bumping into Carlos on my coffee run.
My steps are lighter, the happy echo of my heels buoying my mood.
It takes a nosedive when I see the cart’s closed up, a sign draped across the top suggesting I come again tomorrow. Their hours are so sporadic, but a check of my watch shows I’m also seventeen minutes too late.
Who stops serving coffee at 3:00?
Slowing my steps to a half drag, heels catching noisily, I glance toward the open archway of the medical clinic.
From here I’m still obscured, nothing risked, nothing gained.
It’s not like I have to have a coffee in my hand to say hi.
I lift my chin and stride toward the clinic, visualizing scenarios and outcomes, my goal to cement a second date.
But then I see how busy they are, so I freeze in the center of the archway instead of stepping on through.
There’s a line at reception, several people waiting their turn, so I decide to head out the back exit of the building and treat myself to a latte and a lemon bar at the coffee shop three blocks away.
I whip out my phone so I can multitask and clear emails, using my hip to shove out the door.
With the sun shining down, and my eyes struggling to adjust to the brightness, I can’t see the words onscreen.
Relying heavily on the handrail, I squint and descend the stairs, the humidity greeting me in the same sticky-tongued manner as an overly excited puppy.
To ensure I won’t fall, I glance from my phone as I take the last step and see Noah hunched over a flower bed with a spade.
I note the piles of dark, upturned dirt that’s also caked to the knees of his jeans, along with the plastic trays of flowers and greenery.
He’s replacing the wilted and the dead, and this must be the grannies’ mysterious landscaping contact—I’d asked for more details, only to be told by Grandma Helen I should stop worrying and trying to micromanage everybody, but that “It’ll be done by Monday. ”
“Whoa,” I say, because I’m articulate like that. “You’re not who I expected.”
Noah pauses to lift his forearm to his forehead, using the shade to look up at me. “Yeah, I like to plant flowers around the walkways while waiting around to yell at grandparents.”
A smile plays at his lips, a bit restrained with a pinch of arrogance, just like him. He winks, and why is my heart going thump, thump, thump to this?
My eyes immediately give me the answer, roving the undone buttons up top that give a tantalizing peek at his chest. My stomach goes on a roller coaster ride, cresting around my ribcage before plummeting to my toes.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been winked at, but it’s certainly never elicited this reaction.
Of course he pulls it off, with nothing more than a teasing gleam in the squint of his baby blues, too. Talk about unfair.
But this moment was inevitable, and so I brace myself for a task I’ll likely struggle with till the day I die.
I have to apologize.
It’s not saying sorry that’s so difficult, but the admission of fault—that I made a mistake my brain will replay again and again. If I cause or can’t fix a problem, I’ve disappointed someone, and that’s a hundred times worse than yelling or anger.
“It was unfair of me to accuse you of that,” I say, the words coming out thickly. Not only was it an exaggeration, but if I ever cross paths again with the ex-husband who left Arlene so gobsmacked, lost, and heartbroken, I’ll probably be the one screaming. “Even if I saw it with my own eyes.”
Noah’s jaw drops, so he definitely heard that last part that was supposed to stay in my head. See what I mean? Maybe I’m allergic to apologizing.
I tense, prepping for another verbal sparring match, but I’d feel much better about my odds if my body wasn’t confusing attraction and angry heat.
Then the dude belly laughs, and I’m really not sure what to do with that.
What I should do is try again and, since I tend to do what I should, I give it another go.
“I might’ve been a little—” I refuse to use emotional, not because it’s untrue or I consider it a weakness, but because it’s been weaponized against women for centuries—“riled up the evening of the safe sex seminar. I thought I’d just give a quick refresher course that resulted in everyone vowing to do better, so I could turn my focus to literally any other issue… ”
Whoops, that’s more than I meant to say, but now the truth’s out there, and I’m not sure whether I should finish it.
Noah’s so quiet I check to see if he’s still listening, but I completely lose my train of thought when I find his gaze so steady on me.
This time he doesn’t fight back a smile, and he has a very nice mouth is all I’m saying.
“I could say the same, about that night and my frustration over stubborn grandparents who won’t listen to reason. ”
I laugh, no longer feeling like such a failure for caving to their demands. “What did they bribe you with?” I indicate the cart filled with a bag of sod and various plants with a jerk of my chin. “In exchange for landscaping?”
Is this their big master plan? Outsource labor-intensive tasks to the grandchildren of the community who can’t seem to say no?
“No bribe.” Noah sits back on his heels and swipes his palms together. “I know some guys and don’t mind getting my hands dirty, either.”
“Is that a slam on me?” Here I thought we were having a moment. “I don’t mind the dirt. The trouble’s the germs.”
He cocks his head, squeezing one eye closed as he peers up at me, and damn that boyish charm and my inability to withhold information.
Okay, maybe that was some projecting on my part, which can happen when my anxiety meets my OCD.
“Get down here and dig in the dirt with me, then,” Noah says, snagging a foam board off his cart.
He rests it next to him on the sidewalk so I have padding for my bare shins, and despite the dare in his tone, my insides have gone all melty and warm.
“Unless there’s a floral virus going around that I’m not aware of. ”
“Smartass,” I say, his surprising mix of humor and chivalry making me comfortable enough to jab right back. “I’d kick dirt at you if it wouldn’t soil my shoes.”
“A thank-you would suffice,” he snarks, swinging a plant with clumps of soil around its roots in my direction as I kneel on the padded surface he provided and rearrange my pleated navy skirt.
“This is Hibiscus coccineus, often referred to as a scarlet rosemallow or swamp mallow, because they’re native to Florida and can grow in marshy areas.
It needs to be buried about four inches. ”
“You’re in luck. I happen to be an expert on four inches.” As if he’ll need physical proof, I whip off a pale pink pump that matches the flower’s pedals and the oversized, not-at-all doily-like collar of my dress.
Noah covers my hand with his and gently lowers it, and my shoe, to the ground. “Sugar, I’m not sure how to tell you, but that’s not exactly a brag.”
Oh. My. God. He called me sugar and now I’m melting, and I’m chalking that up to the water that perma-hovers in the air. Not that it’s anything new, but anytime I’m around Noah the humidity gets heavier, I swear.
His response and the innuendo hit me, and then I’m blushing and giggling as I once again heft my stiletto in the air. “The heel! Most of my heels are four inches.”
I jerk the shoe back to my chest and block him with my shoulder just in case. “I’d never use them for digging, though. My shoes can’t get dirty, only me.”
“Noted,” he says, the slide of the spade a punctuation of sorts, and is there no end to my blushing?
I give him a scoffing glare before lowering the roots into the ground, hoping my skirt’s not hiking high enough to expose any cheek—when I’d decided on it this morning, I’d literally thought it’s a little short, but it’s not like I’m going to be bending.
“There.” I pat down the dirt with my hands, shoring up the stem. “I helped.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he teases, so casual with his relaxed sarcasm.
I give his chest a light thwack without thinking, then I’m thinking far too much about the firm resistance of his pecs and how the moment quickly shifts, going from lighthearted to electric in an instant.
Our eyes lock and hold, the two of us staring at each other for a long moment before Noah exhales a breath.
“Look, there are things you don’t understand. ”
That’s not normally something people say to me, and it immediately makes me want to prove him wrong. Joke’s on you; I know everything.
“I understand perfectly fine,” I say, working to keep the iciness from creeping into my tone. “You’re protective of your grandmother, and so am I. What you should ask yourself is why you’re being so uptight about her dating life.”
He lifts his hands as though waving the white flag, and maybe I did assume the worst and snap back before fully listening. “She’s been sheltered her entire life, always relying on my grandfather for everything, and I guess I’m the kid who thinks they’ll eventually get back together.”
“Yeah, no offense, but that group of women won’t let her go back to a man who can’t satisfy her, and I tend to agree with them.”
Noah goes pale, which, totally fair.
“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to make it awkward.”
“You’re so good at it, though.” Amusement dances through his expression and softens his voice.
“I’m good at everything I do,” I retort, but a chime from my phone interrupts before I can tell if he took that as flirting or me being conceited.
Eyes glued to my screen, I skim the email reply from a local reporter as I push to my feet.
“Speaking of, I’d better get back to the office.
Thank you for the landscaping help, I super appreciate it.
I’ve scheduled two different companies to come give me bids, but it’s going to be mostly DIY until August.”
“If you’d like, I’ll pull together a quote, and with the family discount, I guarantee I’ll be cheaper. Between my grandparents’ bickering and me playing mediator, I’m gonna be around plenty anyway.”
“Oh.” I just blink, blink, blink, unsure how to respond. “That’s so generous, but with a property this big, we’ll need to hire a professional company.”
His lips roll inward as he nods, compelling me to return to kneeling so I can console him—does he not have a job? As someone who’s recently gone through that, my heart goes out to him. “If you give me your qualifications, I can ask around and maybe point you in the right direction.”
“See that wagon?” He points, as if I could miss it. “Note the name on it.”
“Drayton Sustainable Landscaping and Design,” I read aloud. “Ah, so you work for a landscaper. Makes sense why you know so much about flowers.”
He’s shaking his head, and I’m scrunching my eyebrows, because even during our peaceful stretches he’s so damn confusing.
He extends a hand as though we’ve just met, and this is what I get for falling for his dare instead of grabbing a latte and rushing back to the office. “The name’s Noah Drayton.”