Chapter Four
The drip-line cap shot out of my hand and rolled under the workbench the second Daphne walked through the gate.
I stayed crouched beside the crate of irrigation parts, one hand still wrapped around the empty line, while water ticked from the open end onto the shed floor.
Birdie looked up from the pepper bed. “Need backup, Zane?”
“Not yet,” I said.
Daphne stopped near the P-Patch sign with her tote on one shoulder, her brown hair twisted up, and loose waves already escaping around her face. She wore worn sneakers, denim shorts, and a soft blue tank that looked a little too much like the lake under July sun.
My hand tightened around the tubing.
Water ticked faster onto the floor.
Gus leaned on his rake near the south row. “Floor’s getting watered.”
Tyler came through the gate behind Daphne and looked deeply relieved. “Great. I’m not the only one having a morning.”
“Your mornings have more commitment,” I said.
Daphne pressed her lips together, but her smile got through. Her cheeks had gone pink before the heat had a fair chance at her.
“Good morning,” she said.
Her voice sounded normal if a man ignored the way she avoided looking at the shed wall where my still-damp boots sat from yesterday.
I reached under the workbench, found the cap, and stood. “Morning, Daphne.”
The cap slipped in my wet fingers.
She caught it before it hit the floor.
For half a second, the small piece of plastic sat in her palm between us. Her fingers were bare. Mine were wet. I could still feel how her hand had held mine on the dock.
I took the cap carefully. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I’m glad the leak is under control.”
Birdie made a happy sound from the pepper bed. “Before nine, no less. This garden is growing faster than I thought.”
Tyler looked at the tubing. “Is that harder than compost?”
“Everything is harder for you than compost,” Gus said.
Tyler frowned at him. “That feels personal.”
“You keep making it personal,” Gus said.
Daphne’s smile widened, and I had to look down at the drip-line cap before I did something stupid with my face.
I screwed the cap onto the open tubing and shut off the little valve. The floor had a spreading puddle across the packed dirt, dark and glossy in the shed shade.
Daphne stepped to the side, out of the water’s path. “Do you need a towel?”
I looked at the puddle, then at the shelf where the rags sat. “I need fewer witnesses.”
“That isn’t on the shelf.”
“It should be.”
She laughed softly.
That sound had no business hitting as hard as it did. Yesterday, she’d laughed on my dock with her skin warm under my hands and her hair loose around her shoulders. Today, she stood three feet from the hours clipboard with her tote on her shoulder and four more hours to earn.
I took one rag from the shelf and dropped it over the puddle.
Daphne watched my hand.
I watched her watch my hand.
Tyler cleared his throat from the doorway. “Should I go screen compost again?”
“Yes,” I said.
He pointed toward the bins. “I respect that quick decision.”
“You should respect it while moving.”
Tyler moved.
Daphne bit her lip. She stopped as soon as she saw me notice, but she was too late. My fingers tightened around the wet rag, and I bent to wipe the floor before she could read anything on my face.
The P-Patch was already bright and loud outside the shed. Bees worked the purple flowers near the gate. The sun pressed heat into the tomato rows. The peppers flashed green and red under Birdie’s straw hat, and Gus dragged a bucket along the south fence with steady patience.
I wrung the rag into the bucket and reached for the clipboard. “Phones in bags. Water before work. You know the routine.”
Daphne slipped her tote onto the shelf. “I was hoping today’s routine included fewer surprise plumbing events.”
“I don’t make promises about plumbing.”
“That sounds like something a man says after mopping the shed.”
“I didn’t lose.”
She glanced at the wet floor.
“I fixed it eventually,” I said.
Her mouth curved. “Very diplomatic.”
Birdie called from the peppers, “If that leak starts again, I want warning.”
Daphne looked over her shoulder. “I’ll take notes.”
I took one bottle from the cooler and handed it to Daphne. I kept my fingers clear of hers this time. She noticed that too, and the little dip in her gaze made my chest pull tight.
She twisted the cap open and drank.
A bead of water clung to her lower lip.
I picked up the tubing crate before my attention got any worse. “You’re with me on the drip line along the south row. Tyler’s on compost. Gus has fence-edge clearing. Birdie has peppers and whatever else she decides I forgot.”
Birdie lifted one hand. “That will take all morning.”
“It usually does.”
Daphne capped her water. “What does drip line involve?”
“Small hoses. Small holes. Big mess if someone fixes them wrong.”
“That sounds official.”
“It’s around here.”
“I knew irrigation had a rulebook.”
Birdie smiled. “Everything has a rulebook if you ask the city.”
Daphne laughed again, easier this time. She pulled on her gloves from the shelf, flexed her fingers, and followed me out into the sun.
The south row ran closest to my fence line. Past the raised beds and the strip of scrub grass, my land started in pines and slope. Beargrass Lake sat beyond it, out of sight from this angle but not out of mind.
Daphne looked that way once.
Only once.
Then she knelt beside the bed like she’d decided to keep both knees and every thought pointed at the work.
I set the tubing crate between us and crouched. “This section isn’t watering evenly. We’re checking for clogs and bad caps.”
“Are they always this tight?”
“Most of them.”
“Useful warning after this morning.”
I handed her a connector. “This piece joins two lines. Push it in straight. If you twist too hard, it cracks.”
Daphne studied the little plastic piece in her gloved palm. “This stuff is fussier than it looks.”
“It’s cheap.”
“That explains so much.”
I caught one end of the tubing and showed her the split near the seam. “This is the part we’re replacing.”
She leaned closer. Sun slid along the curve of her shoulder. A loose brown wave fell against her cheek, and she blew it away without touching it.
My hand paused on the tubing.
Daphne’s eyes flicked to mine.
The garden kept working around us. Birdie clipped peppers. Tyler made a dramatic gagging sound near the compost, and Gus said, “Compost’s already had enough trouble.” A truck rolled by on the road outside the gate.
Daphne looked back at the line first.
I pushed the connector into place and handed her the other end. “Your turn.”
She braced the tubing in both hands. “Straight in. No twisting. Don’t crack the pipe.”
“That’s the whole lesson.”
She pushed. The connector slipped halfway in and stopped.
Her brows drew together. “It’s stuck.”
“Push from the base.”
“I’m trying not to break it.”
“You can use force on this one.”
Daphne adjusted her grip and pushed again. The connector slid into place with a small, satisfying pop.
Her face brightened. “I did it.”
“You did.”
“That sounded almost like praise.”
“It was praise.”
Her smile turned softer, and the heat under my ribs got mean.
I looked down at the line and reached for the next piece. “Don’t let it go to your head. We’ve got twenty feet of tubing left.”
“Right. I’ll stay focused around irrigation.”
“Good.”
She shifted on her knees, and a tiny wince crossed her face before she smoothed it away.
I caught it anyway. “Your knees?”
“My knees are involved in a private dispute with the ground.”
“We can get you a pad.”
“I’m not using a kneeling pad after three days.”
“It’s equipment.”
“That sounds like the beginning of surrender.”
I stared at her for half a second.
Daphne stared back, and then her lips twitched.
I reached into the crate and pulled out the foam kneeling pad. “Use the pad.”
“Are you always this stubborn about foam?”
“Only when I’m right.”
“That sounds convenient.”
“It usually is.”
She took the pad and slid it under her knees. “Fine. But if Tyler notices, I’m blaming you.”
“Tyler has compost problems.”
“Spoken like a man who knows how to redirect attention.”
Birdie laughed loud enough that the peppers got company.
For the next hour, Daphne worked beside me down the south row.
She asked before cutting. She checked each connector.
She listened the first time I showed her how to angle the emitters toward the roots, and she corrected her own placement on the next line before I said anything.
Dirt streaked one forearm. Sweat dampened the soft hair at her temple.
She didn’t rush, and she didn’t quit when the plastic fought her.
She looked up from a stubborn cap. “This one’s stuck.”
I took the line from her. “It’s jammed with grit.”
“After all that work? That seems unfair.”
“Grit will do that.”
“Clearly.”
I pinched the cap, twisted, and popped it loose. A little spray of water hit the front of my shirt.
Daphne’s eyes dropped to the wet spot.
I remembered her hands dragging my shirt up my chest yesterday. Her mouth. Her knees braced against my sides on the dock. Her voice saying my name like she’d forgotten the world could hear.
Daphne’s fingers tightened around the tubing.
I handed the cap back. “Clear it and put it on again.”
She blinked, then nodded. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m now a cap-clearing professional.”
“You’ve had one hour of training.”
“Then I’m seasonal help.”
“I’ve seen worse resumes.”
Her mouth curved. “That’s reassuring or terrifying.”
“Both, usually.”
“Do seasonal experts garden?”
“Not in those shoes.”
“That isn’t a no.”
“It’s close.”
Daphne smiled and held up the cap. “I’m very good at noticing people’s shoes.”
A laugh broke out of me before I could stop it.
Daphne’s face changed when she heard it. Not big. Not dramatic. Her eyes warmed, and her shoulders eased.
I took the cleared cap and put it back on the line. “Keep working.”
“Very mature.”
“Try not to sound disappointed.”
“I was hoping for a community activity.”
“We’ve got compost if you’re bored.”
“No, thank you. Tyler needs supervision.”