Chapter Five
Green Thumb
Jordan
The dirt presses against my palms as I pat the seeds down into the earth, just finely enough that they lie on top of the bed of soil.
Lavender is a finicky art. I’m lucky enough that Rebecca gave me a row in her garden, but it’s all about the technique, the love with which you plant it.
The more love you plant it with, the stronger its scent when it grows.
A smile spreads across my face as the sun beats down, sweat beading on my brow.
Zach Bryan and Noah Kahan’s ‘Sarah’s Place’ hums through the speaker on a keychain attached to my gardening bag from behind me.
I’m fortunate enough that because of all the work I did on the ranch and farm I fully grew up on, I’ve learned to do these tasks without thinking too much.
It lets me enjoy them a hell of a lot more than if I were hyper-focused on every seed I plant in the ground, as I move down the row, sanding the soil and adding the
seeds.
‘When can I expect results?’
Rebecca’s voice calls my attention. I glance up with a grin. ‘Hopefully in somethin’ like two weeks, they’ll germinate.’
‘Isn’t that beautiful.’ Rebecca plants her hands on her hips, today’s set of colourful bangles clinking. She surveys her garden with satisfaction. ‘It’ll be a bounty next summer, just you wait. And this lavender … Jordan, where in the hell’d you learn to farm like this?’
I sit back on my haunches with a contented sigh, dusting dirt from my hands.
‘Home, ma’am. I had a hundred-and-some square feet at home.
Was pretty much all we farmed, because other than that, it was ranch land, horses and cattle.
It’s therapy, in between work and sports and school.
Planted it just for myself, and then it did well to bring in extra cash when tourists came in wanting bundles. ’
‘From Oklahoma to Massachusetts,’ remarks Rebecca, crouching down and rubbing some of the soil between her fingers. ‘Adding the sand, that’s how I knew you were serious about this stuff.’
‘Oh, you know it.’ I creep forward to sand the last of the soil in the row, making sure to leave a couple of feet between the patches. ‘Once this starts growing, it’s gonna turn out beautiful. Now, that probably won’t be till next year, but they’ll certainly sprout this summer.’
‘Don’t you worry, I’ll tend to them, and send plenty of photos, of course,’ Rebecca assures me.
She moves back to standing and adjusts her white cardigan to sit properly on her shoulders again.
‘Why don’t you come on in once you’ve done the row, hon?
I’ve just made the pie. It’s exactly what you could use after a long day’s work. ’
‘With—’
‘Gluten free,’ she adds, reading my mind.
I could probably pass out in the dirt from joy. This woman is my new best friend. ‘You are an angel.’
Rebecca disappears back into the house through the sliding glass doors with a happy little chuckle, and I haul myself to my feet at the end of the row of my lavender.
I fully wipe my hands off on my jeans to get the dirt out from under my pink painted nails and press a palm to my chest. My heart thuds calmly, evenly beneath it.
I’ll admit it, I love my chaos, but I love my quiet, too.
It’s not something I got an awful lot of back home, and it’s certainly not something I got since moving to Rhode Island for professional lacrosse.
Here, though, I live in a pocket where it’s just me, my lavender, and gluten-free pie.
No expectations, no responsibilities, no constant work.
‘Beeeeck!’
A familiar man’s voice cuts through my peace. Seriously? Here?
‘Rebecca? Re—’
Rod stops dead in his tracks when his eyes meet mine from the other side of Rebecca’s garden.
He’s still looking at me the same way he did at camp yesterday, as if I’ve sprouted horns and started lowing like one of my mom’s cattle.
Because what the hell is up with that? ‘Have you seen Rebecca at all?’
‘Just saw her.’ I raise an eyebrow, mindlessly picking a chunk of dirt out of one of my turquoise rings. ‘She’s inside.’
‘Ah.’
He doesn’t make to go inside. Instead, he crosses the garden, ever so casually strolling his way towards me.
I take it back; maybe that sprouted-horns look of his is finally starting to mellow out, but what it’s replaced with makes me even more curious.
There’s certainly a degree of incredulousness in his eyes as they quickly sweep me over, taking in the dirt and the gardening bag at my feet.
‘What’d you plant?’
‘Lavender.’ I tug the rapidly slipping ponytail holder from my hair and finger-comb out a knot, snapping the hairband back on my wrist. ‘Don’t think it’ll be ready to harvest for a while, though.’
As I run a hand through that still stubborn knot, I watch as Rod rakes his fingers through his own dark hair, pushing it back ditto to my gesture.
I suppress the smile twitching at my lips.
Oh, my God. I’ve been around enough college men in the time I spent on the University of Oklahoma City lacrosse team, jumping from campus to campus, to know this well.
May used to say that when a guy started doing that at the bar, you knew you would be drinking for free that night.
Whether or not he realizes it, the fool’s mirroring me.
My hand freezes in my hair.
Oh. My. God.
‘What’d you need from Rebecca?’ I manage. Two and two are actively starting to make four in my head as this interaction unfolds. There’s no way.
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, clears his throat. ‘Um. Just wanted to grab a slice of pie. Remember?’
‘I thought you didn’t like surprises.’ Now, I’m the one who’s sporting the incredulous look.
If this doesn’t confirm it. This fucker is flirting with me.
Rodney Wilson is flirting with me. It’s easy to say I’m just seeing things, imagining signs where there are none.
To dismiss it as the wandering mind of a girl with her head in the clouds.
But I keep thinking of May’s words. That is empirical evidence if I’ve ever seen any.
‘Yeah.’ He clearly didn’t come all this way for pie. Not
that I mind. His strong arms work against his grey T-shirt, a hand moving to scratch his stubbled jaw. Why is this whole flustered thing making him more attractive? Since when
was flustered effortlessly sexy? ‘Maybe I can get behind taking that chance. Kind of.’
‘Smooth.’ The smile sneaks out now. I can’t help it. I reach down to grab my gardening bag, but my chivalrous visitor beats me to it, moving so fast I question just how until I remember he’s a lacrosse attacker. He goes for the bag with a muttered, ‘Lemme get that,’ just as I bend down.
We stand at the same time, and I’m about an inch of foot placement from absolutely biting it. My hand instinctively reaches out to find support wherever I can get it, and it evidently chooses Rod’s very solid, very strong chest.
My wide eyes lock on his, and he’s just as surprised as I am.
Maybe I’m the problem, but he’s not exactly innocent, either.
One of his hands must’ve flown to catch my stumble, because it sits at my hip, just below the belt loop of my jeans.
Warm, strong, and exceptionally steady. His gaze doesn’t leave mine.
His long eyelashes flutter, and the sun illuminates the pale brown flecks in his eyes like they’re made of liquid bronze.
Well. Rodney Wilson is flirting with me. And it feels incredible.
What in the world does one do when their celebrity crush appears before them and starts dropping hints? Hell if I know. I literally cannot believe this. Play it cool, Jor.
I ever-so-quickly and ever-so-awkwardly step away and, of course, Rod follows what I do motion for motion. ‘Thanks,’ I say around a forced cough, crossing my arms over the bull on my ratty Coors Rodeo T-shirt.
‘Don’t mention it.’ Rod extends the bag sheepishly. ‘Doubt I’d benefit from taking this home with me.’
‘Not unless you know how to garden. Do you?’
‘Poorly.’
I laugh, shaking my head. Some of the awkward slides off my shoulders, and I accept the bag. The brush of our hands leaves a tingling dancing across the pads of my fingers, the sort of sensation that I realize I kind of want to feel more of. ‘You could plant something, sometime. Just ask.’
‘I have the opposite of a green thumb,’ he says with a wince.
I take a daring little step forward, lean in. I get the briefest note of his cologne, a piece of what I’d caught all the parts of just a moment ago. Musk? ‘Once upon a time, me, too.’
‘You? Miss Farm Fresh?’ Rod raises his hands in disbelief, but I take that moment to turn and head for the patio doors to the guesthouse, a hand pressed to my chest once more.
It’s no longer the calm evenness. My heart is fucking pounding, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that there’s only one reason for that, one person causing it.
‘How’d you do it?’ he calls after me. I will myself to blink away the thoughts of what that strong chest looks like without the layer of fabric between us.
Jeez. You literally just got here, girl.
Leaning into whatever this is, even if it’s Rod Wilson at the other end, is so random, so counterproductive, and such a far-fetched dream.
Actually, this is about as far from reality as far gets.
‘Go get your pie!’ I shout back. I roll my eyes. And I slide the door shut behind me.
But the second I’m inside, I press a hand to my forehead, wide-eyed for a minute like I’ve almost hit a coyote driving at night. Holy shit.
‘Holy shit,’ I repeat. And then I clap my hands over my mouth. What I think is a squeal comes out. Foreign sound, one I was pretty sure I was incapable of making. Until now.
I close my eyes, and unfortunately, all I see is the unfairly handsome face of Rodney Wilson. I can literally still feel his hand against my bare skin. I touch the place he’d held me. I have some irrational need to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
I take a big old breath. My pulse doesn’t slow.
So. Not hallucinating.