Just Can't Forget You: Oakland Hills Short Story 2 (Oakland Hills #3.5)(4)

Of all the people from those months at the Center, it was Melissa who haunted his memories: her humor, her intelligence, her depth. Much of the year of Alex’s death was a blur, but she stood out in sharp focus, the only bright light in a dark time.

She walked up his front steps, nodding a greeting. A frayed backpack hung over one shoulder, and a floppy hat as big as an 18-inch pizza box sat on her head. Her blue eyes under the brim were wary.

His heart tightened in his chest, a reaction that surprised him. It had been so long. He hadn’t realized how deeply those old feelings had rooted.

“It’s really nice to see you again, Melissa,” he said.

She averted her gaze. “You too. Is the space in back?”

“Space?”

The corner of her mouth curved up. “The dirt.”

“Ah. Yes. The dirt is in the back,” he said. “Come on in.”

She glanced at the driveway. “We can walk around through the side yard, can’t we?”

“This is faster.” He stepped aside, arm outstretched. This way she’d see more of the handsome old house and all the improvements he’d made. He hadn’t only bankrolled the renovation; he’d designed each project himself, and was proud of how it had turned out.

With a shrug, she ducked her head and walked past him, giving him so much extra space that her backpack struck the doorjamb. She shot him a look over her shoulder to see if he’d seen, and he kept a bland smile on his face, seeing he made her nervous.

Nervous could be good, or it could be bad.

He ducked his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, hoping it was the good kind.

She strode into the living room, saying nothing about the shining hardwood floors, the wainscoted walls, the colorful wool area rugs, stained-glass windows, and original paintings. She ignored all of his hard work and excellent taste and marched into the kitchen—with its charcoal granite countertops, high-end stainless-steel appliances, and bouquet of sunflowers on the table—straight to the sliding glass doors that led to the deck.

All right, so she wasn’t impressed. Maybe that was good. He didn’t want her to love him for his money.

Of course, if it got her to consider the idea…

Whoa. Part of him worried he was going too fast. But another, deeper part of him knew second chances didn’t come every day.

As he strode past her and opened the doors, he noted her cheeks under the floppy hat were sunburned. Out on the deck, she unzipped the backpack and pulled out a long stem heavy with glossy green leaves and small white flowers. The sweet scent hit him immediately.

“That’s it,” he said, smiling. “Exactly what I was talking about. I knew you could help me.”

“Star jasmine. It’s probably planted at least once within every cultivated acre of non-agricultural land in the entire state of California.” She held it up her nose and inhaled, smiling. “I like it. Even though it’s so common. It’s even better at night.”

He took it from her, lifted it to his own nose, and met her gaze over the blossoms. “I like the sound of that.”


Her sunburned cheeks under the floppy hat turned a darker shade of pink. He hadn’t intended his remark to be suggestive, but she’d taken it that way.

He bit back a smile. Good nervous.

The dirt that had inspired him to call the nursery encircled the little flagstone patio where he sat with his coffee every morning. The rest of the sloped, wooded lot was also bare soil—he’d removed the lawn right after he’d bought the house the previous autumn—but it was the small area near the patio where he wanted the garden.

“What do you think? Will this stuff work here?” He waved the jasmine.

She looked up at the network of tree branches overhead. “There’s a lot of shade, but I think so. You won’t get quite as much flowering, but it won’t need as much water, either. That’s good.”

“Less water is good,” he said. He might as well try to sound informed.

“There’s actually quite a lot of space here.”

Although he knew quite well the double lot was unusually large for his neighborhood in North Oakland—he’d paid a fortune for it, outbidding a dozen other buyers—he plastered an innocent look on his face. “There is?”

“You’ll want more than just star jasmine. You’ll need a way to walk around, for one. Even if you’re using the jasmine as ground-cover, you’ll need to access the fence, clean up the leaves.”

“Leaves?”

“Yeah.” A broad smile lit up her face. “Those are deciduous trees up there. You’ll have two or three months of leaf drop to clean up every fall. Did you move in recently?”

She was beautiful when she smiled. She hadn’t done much of that back at the Center. He wished he were a comedian so he could see that smile nonstop. “Less than a year.”

“So you haven’t had to clean up from them yet. You might want to get yourself a leaf blower.”

“I hate those things, all that noise pollution,” he said. “I’ll use a rake.”

“You won’t want the jasmine ground-cover if you plan on using a rake.”

He would’ve enjoyed her smile more if it weren’t at his expense. “You seem pleased to bear bad news.”

She laughed. “Sorry. I did tell you it might not be easy.”