Chapter One #4
“There,” he said. “Try the base of the plant.”
I aimed carefully. The water darkened the soil around the first start.
“Like that?” I asked.
“Like that.”
The praise was barely praise, only two calm, practical words.
My skin warmed anyway.
We moved down the row, Zane staying nearby for the first few plants before giving me space.
I watered slowly, careful not to wash out the soil, and after a while the motion became almost soothing.
Sun warmed my shoulders, water pattered over earth, pine shade shifted at the edge of the garden, bees worked over the flowers, and my own breath finally settled into a rhythm that didn’t feel like panic or performance.
Maybe Birdie was right.
Maybe the first day was hardest because I was still trying to look like I hadn’t been dragged here by the worst choice I’d ever made.
By the time the row was finished, my blouse had dirt on the hem, my flats were beyond prayer, and my arms felt like overcooked noodles.
But the plants were watered.
The weeds were in a bucket.
The world hadn’t ended.
Zane took the hose from me and coiled it with quick, practiced loops. “Not bad.”
“I only assaulted you once.”
“With water.”
“So far.”
His gaze met mine.
The joke hung there, bright and risky.
I should’ve looked away.
I didn’t.
His shirt had dried in patches, but one damp place still clung near his ribs. A line of script disappeared under the sleeve at his shoulder. His forearm flexed around the hose, ink shifting over muscle.
Zane studied my face, then dropped his attention for one brief second to my mouth.
It lasted one second, maybe less, and it was enough.
Then he turned away and hung the hose on its hook. “Let’s get you signed out.”
My pulse kept racing like it hadn’t received the memo.
Inside the shed, the air was cooler and dimmer. Zane took down the clipboard and wrote the date, start time, end time, and four hours in the neat boxes beside my name.
Four hours were finished.
My first four hours were done.
Only sixteen remained.
That should’ve felt like a sentence.
Instead, while Zane signed his name in firm black ink, I caught myself staring at the strong line of his wrist and thinking about tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I could wear better shoes.
Tomorrow, I could bring water.
Tomorrow, I could stop reacting to my site supervisor like community service had been designed by poor judgment.
Zane clicked the pen and handed me the clipboard. “Initial here.”
I did.
Our fingers brushed when I gave it back.
It was a small touch, nothing, less than nothing.
My breath still caught.
Zane’s hand paused for a fraction of a second on the clipboard before he hung it back on the wall.
He stepped away first.
That was good, responsible, professional, and infuriating.
“You did well today,” he said.
The words landed softly because he sounded like he meant them.
I looked down at myself: dirt-streaked blouse, borrowed gloves, ruined flats, hair falling around my face. “I look like I lost a fight with the concept of agriculture.”
“You kept going.”
My throat tightened again.
“I need the hours,” I said.
“That’s not the same thing.”
No, it wasn’t.
I looked at him then. Really looked.
Zane McCrae stood in the shed doorway with the garden bright behind him, tattoos down his arms, dust on his boots, and the kind of steady attention that made a person feel seen and cornered at the same time.
I had no idea what he thought I’d done.
I had no intention of telling him.
But for one reckless second, I wanted him to know I wasn’t the worst thing on my paperwork.
I picked up my tote instead. “Same time tomorrow?”
“If you can walk.”
“I’ll crawl dramatically through the gate if necessary.”
“Please don’t. Birdie will organize an audience.”
“She would.”
“She absolutely would.”
I smiled despite myself.
Zane glanced at my mouth again, quick and controlled, before he opened the shed door wider. “Wear boots if you have them.”
“I own ankle boots with a decorative buckle.”
“No.”
“Loafers?”
“No.”
“Very sturdy sneakers?”
“Better.”
“I’ll try to dress less like a woman who trusts sidewalks.”
“That’d be a start.”
Outside, Birdie waved from the tomato row. Gus lifted one hand. Tyler, sweaty and compost-streaked, gave me a thumbs-up like we’d survived combat together.
Maybe we had, but my shoes had paid the highest price.
I walked toward the gate with my tote over one shoulder and my ruined pink flats making soft, gritty sounds on the path. The sun was high now, pouring hard white light over the beds and the shed and the blue P-Patch sign. My body ached in places I hadn’t introduced myself to yet.
At the gate, I glanced back.
Zane stood by the shed, clipboard in one hand, with that same controlled, unreadable expression.
He wasn’t smiling.
He wasn’t scowling.
He was just watching.
Heat curled low in my belly, slow and inconvenient.
I came here because a judge decided I needed twenty hours in the dirt.
After one morning at Larch Bend P-Patch, I still felt the place where Zane’s fingers had brushed mine all the way to the parking lot.