Chapter Twenty-Six
“It’s about damn time,” Sophia says, which merges into Wanda’s “Praise the goddess.”
Both are tame compared to Grandma Helen’s extra loud, “Use protection. Thanks to you, there’s a box of condoms in the—”
“That’s enough advice, thank you,” I say over the top of her, not caring if I’m being a pinch hypocritical because they’re being a lot presumptuous. Casting Noah a sidelong glance, I say, “Grandparents these days, am-I-right?”
Grandma Helen fishes an ice cube from her glass and flings it in my direction.
I duck behind Noah, too late to avoid shrapnel in the shoulder, and okay, I probably deserved that. Next, she withdraws the flamingo keychain with LED light from her giant purse and jingles the keys at me.
Not exactly a white flag—save maybe here in Florida—so I test the waters, slowly leaning across the table.
Our gazes latch, and we exchange a smile we’ve shared countless times through the decades.
The fine lines around her eyes may deepen, but her unwavering love for me remains ever the same.
It’s been my constant in a world that’s anything but, and she arches an eyebrow, pointing out that I’m happy—excited, even.
Silently conveying these are the type of moments she doesn’t want me to miss.
For once, I don’t resist, don’t hesitate or question. I seize the keys, the moment, and the guy. I pull him to his feet, lacing my fingers with his.
This gal just came from a racy photoshoot. She doesn’t get nervous over snagging and keeping hold of a guy’s hand.
Omigod, I’m totally holding Noah Drayton’s hand.
I peer into his half-lidded eyes and lose my breath all over again. There’s an intense hunger I can’t recall ever being aimed my way, not from any guys I was interested in or even fully dating, along with a sense of urgency that floods me with heat and leaves the world spinning.
He snugs me securely to his side, planting a hand to my lower back, fingers splaying dangerously close to my ass, and a powerful thrill goes through me. I’m so black and white, I’ve always wondered what it’d be like, playing in the gray.
“Have fun, kids,” Grandma Helen hollers after us. “The glove compartment’s locked, but the flamingo’ll open it up.”
Rita spins in her seat, her wave as wide as her grin. “Buenas noches. Can’t wait to hear all about it manana.”
Overlapping farewells from the rest of the group get swallowed by the calling of another space, and right before the door to the gymnasium swings closed, several people holler “Bingo” at once.
I wonder if Noah realizes that was the space he also needed to beat me.
“Where are we going?” he asks as I tow him down the hallway toward the building’s exit.
“I’m not one hundred percent sure yet, but I’ll know it when I find it.”
“That’s comforting,” he snarks, but the amusement in his expression softens the statement while increasing the pressure.
See, this is why I enjoy planning ahead—the logistics. “It’s called being spontaneous, and it’s a rarity for me, so don’t ruin it.”
The smartass salutes me.
Then he morphs into a gentleman, rushing ahead to open the door, my much smaller hand still enveloped in his.
Thanks to my grandmother’s colorful floral garland and puffy pink bouquets, I spot her golf cart fairly quickly. It’s not that I’m not grateful about the lack of loofahs, I’m just also worried it signifies a bigger issue with her dating life.
Namely, her utter lack of one and how she constantly deflects any time hers comes up. But worries and concerns don’t lend well to impulsivity, and I’m determined to let myself be fully present. No rehashing past dating disasters or fast forwarding to what’ll happen after tonight.
While my alcohol buzz has worn off, I don’t fight Noah on driving when he extends his palm for the keys, as his presence always leaves me plenty impaired.
I do, however, press the button on the flamingo’s head that makes it squawk and light up as I pass the keys over, because I think it’s funny—Grandma Helen’s informed us all the obnoxious honking is her version of Life Alert
Noah shakes his head at me, pretending he’s not amused, so I grin wider and lean more heavily against his side. I can’t get over how he automatically wraps an arm around me and tucks me there, as though we’ve done this a dozen times before.
“I’ve got an idea,” he says, but doesn’t expand. The guy says infuriatingly little in general, yet I hang on every word. I counted down the minutes till I’d see him again, and it was unlike me to get so swept away without reason.
Maybe I’m still more under-the-influence than I realize, because I just go along with it, although it’s definitely more about my companion than the cocktails.
There’s also something extra delightful about watching the ridiculous pink bird dangle and swing in his grip as he helps me into the passenger side and quickly rounds the stumpy hood.
Once he’s behind the steering wheel, I slide across the vinyl bench seat and drag a fingertip over that fascinating line in his forearm. “Okay, confession time: I wasn’t sure I wanted you at bingo tonight…but I’m glad you came.”
His fingers barely graze my knee, a teasing of electricity before his palm brands my inner thigh. “Why, Mia Andrews, are you coming on to me?”
Flirting’s never been my strong suit, but I bat my false lashes and twirl a curl around my finger. “What, too bold for you?”
I’m obsessed with the slow spread of his grin, and how it makes me feel like I’m in on a secret only the two of us know. His gaze comes to rest on my mouth, and he sways closer and says in a deep, husky voice, “Not with that lipstick.”
Seconds elongate and merge, a roaring river in my ears that separates us from the rest of the universe, and my eyes flutter shut. I’m thinking any moment he’ll kiss me when his hand falls away and the engine purrs to life.
Noah depresses the pedal, and we’re off, driving up the trail that skirts the golf course, a high-pitched whine trailing along after.
Around the seventh hole, he veers off course, down a trail overgrown in places. I flinch at the occasional scrape of branches, even though they can’t touch me, and Noah drapes his arm around my shoulders and curls me protectively closer.
The shrubbery thins, and we pop out on the northeast corner of the property where they used to hold sunrise yoga before attendance dwindled right along with the residents.
At last glance, the meadow had become an untamable jungle—especially to someone with the unfortunate knowledge that overgrown vegetation provides an ideal habitat for snakes, and given the python invasion in the Everglades, this gal’s decided you really can’t be too careful.
Hold up. When did this get here? There are signs of upturned patches, baby plants, and newness everywhere, and I pride myself on knowing what’s going on in my village.
Not, like, my village, but the property I manage for work.
I’m totally not getting my streams crossed, but I’m also glad I don’t have to be my usual, sensible self tonight, because it feels as though we’ve wandered into an enchanted fairy garden.
Strings of twinkle lights ring the gnarled trunk of a gumbo limbo tree that can’t be much taller than me, and a stone walkway winds through the drought-resistant plants and gravel.
Xeriscaping is what they call that, a word I admittedly know because I perused Noah’s website and learned about his dedication to choosing plants that’ll survive arid climates, minimizing the need for irrigation.
A small pond surrounded by rock sits off to the right, with a mini waterfall that flows into a tinier pond with koi fish and water lilies. As we putter past, Noah explains that plants play a critical role in filtering a pond, in addition to providing necessary shade for the hot summer months.
“My main goal is to decrease water use while increasing pollinators.” Using the runoff from the surrounding vegetation, he’s built a self-sustaining ecosystem, down to the solar lights that provide a soothing golden glow.
“It took me a while to get the good ol’ boys at the city onboard, but we’re a third of the way there. ”
The passion for his career rings through, ambition a trait I hadn’t attributed to him without even bothering to find out. I ask how he got into the business, and he makes a joke about his love of playing in the mud and finding plants easier to get along with than most people.
As we round the corner, I catch sight of sectioned off plots of earth, soil recently overturned. Flanking either side are a dozen raised flowerbeds that catapult my excitement to the next level and leave me bouncing in my seat. “So the residents can garden?”
“That’s the idea,” Noah says.
I can definitely envision the gang out here.
Vonetta would walk the rows, unable to stop herself from giving advice, while Gertie went along and assured everyone they were doing great; Bette would crack jokes as the bubbies reaped enough organic produce to feed their brood of grandchildren; and Grandma Helen would water and till with precision while Wanda dug her nails full of dirt getting in touch with Mother Nature.
“Hire a landscaper and then insist on doing the labor yourself,” Noah says with a baffled shake of his head, so I keep it to myself that the idea for a community garden was mine.
I pitched the idea to Jan a couple of weeks ago, after researching the wellness benefits and conducting a poll that suggested a high level of interest in renting beds—it brought in another revenue stream without much extra work, and admittedly, I thought it’d been a stroke of genius.
Jan hadn’t indicated much interest, nor did she reply to my follow-up email. Lately she’s been fairly MIA, so I’m just happy she took on an action item and that it’s already done so I can cross it off.
“Well, you’re giving us such a discount,” I tease Noah. “It only seems fair we have the residents do some of the work, too.”