Just Can't Forget You: Oakland Hills Short Story 2 (Oakland Hills #3.5)(2)

“I don’t want anything that needs much maintenance. Does your star jasmine require much work?”

“No, actually, it’s very low-maintenance—”

“Perfect. Then that’s decided. I’ll give you my address. You or the other guy can drop by and do whatever you need to do. May I have your name?”

“Melissa, but—”

“Melissa?” His melodious voice sharpened.

“Yes, Melissa.”

The phone went quiet. She ran a hand through her hair, forgetting her fingers were still grubby with potting soil. “I’ll get your number and one of our senior staff will call you back to go over the det—”

“Melissa… I’m writing this down. Mind if I get your last name?”

“McGowan. Melissa McGowan. But it’s Jake or Mary you’ll probably be—”

“McGowan?”

“Yes.”

The phone went quiet for a moment. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“It might be better to set up an appointment. If you give me your—”

“See you soon.” He ended the call.

She stared at the phone in her hand. She had the oddest sensation of déjà vu.

Ian slipped back behind the counter. “Everything OK?”

“He’s going to come in.” She replaced the phone handset in the cradle. “When’s Jake due back from lunch?”

“No idea. What time did you make the appointment?”

“I didn’t. He just said he was coming in.”

“Next time, get the name and number first,” Ian said. “Then one of us can follow up.”

Melissa felt her cheeks warm. His mild rebuke stung. “I’ll get it when he comes in.”

Hanging a pair of bright-purple nitrile gloves on a hook next to the register, Ian tilted his head toward the door, where Jake was just striding in. “Don’t bother. Jake will handle it.”

“What’s up?” Jake asked, unsheathing fries from a white In-N-Out Burger bag.

Feeling even worse, Melissa filled Jake in on the customer’s call and then escaped to her potting table and the peaceful simplicity of rare perennials. Replacing her earbuds, she let out a calming breath as the indie folk-electronica music filled her ears and got back to work. Within seconds she was immersed with the feel of soil, water, roots, and life, and the world outside slipped away.

Until a hand on her shoulder made her jump so violently that she dropped the root ball she’d been holding. As she fumbled to take out the earbuds, she turned and saw a bearded man in dark glasses looming over her.





2


UNNERVED, MELISSA TOOK A STEP back and bumped into the table. She bent down to pick up the delicate plant that had fallen onto the gravel.

“Melissa?” The man’s voice was low and buttery-smooth.

She realized it was the old-timer on the phone. Except he wasn’t an old-timer. Unless thirty was the new eighty.

Heart pounding—it was just that she’d been surprised, and had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with how he looked like a dashing secret agent who saved the world before breakfast—she straightened and attempted a smile.

“That’s me,” she said, looking past his broad shoulder straining under the crisp white button-down shirt for Jake or Ian, suppressing the urge to cry for help.

“I shouldn’t have crept up behind you,” the man said, slowly removing his sunglasses.

Help.

He was the most sexually potent specimen of male humanity she’d ever seen—at least in person. She imagined movie stars had this kind of charisma, but although she’d grown up in Southern California, she’d never been this close to one. Twelve, maybe eighteen inches away from deep brown eyes, blue-black hair, a square jaw under a trimmed beard, and a wide, sensuous mouth that was slightly curved up at the corners.

And there was the gold stud in one ear, drawing her attention to his high cheekbones above the sharp line of his beard.

This guy wanted plants?

Maybe he needed a soothing retreat from his job thwarting violent criminals. Or competing in triathlons. Or perhaps she was overreacting, and he was only an internationally famous underwear model.


“Melissa,” he said again. His probing gaze stroked her from head to toe.

She nodded, embarrassed he’d unbalanced her. “Yes. Hi. You’re the guy on the phone?” She called him a guy to make him seem more down-to-earth, even though every inch of him screamed man, man, man.

Or maybe that was her screaming.

He extended a hand. His shirt was rolled up, exposing a muscular forearm. “Yes. I’m… Eduardo.”

She held up her soil-stained fingers. “You don’t want to touch me.”

His penetrating gaze made her ears burn. “I don’t mind,” he said finally, enveloping her hand in his. His grip was strong but gentle. Warm but hot.

She gave him a quick squeeze and jerked her hand away before she gave into temptation and left it there for a while.

Eduardo. An old memory stirred in the depths of her brain. “I’ll introduce you to Jake. He makes the house calls.”

He shook his head and tucked the glasses into his chest pocket. “I already told them inside that you were helping me.”