Just Can't Forget You: Oakland Hills Short Story 2 (Oakland Hills #3.5)(5)

“So you did. OK, then, what do you suggest?” He realized that the more complicated the garden design, the longer she’d have to be at his house.

“Are you sure you want me and not one of my coworkers? They’ve got much more experience than I do. Jake has a master’s degree in lands—”

“Of course I’m sure,” he said. “When can you start?”





4


AT EIGHT A.M. THE FOLLOWING Saturday, Melissa unrolled a coil of half-inch black plastic irrigation tubing across Eduardo’s backyard, shivering in the fog but knowing hard labor would warm her up soon. The wail of a fire truck siren split the early morning quiet, reminding her she was in the middle of Oakland. The backyard was so well enclosed by the redwood fencing and sycamore, it was easy to forget that dense concrete jungle surrounded the house for miles on all sides.

She shivered again, this time from the sixth sense that told her Eddie—Eduardo—was watching her through the glass doors to his living room. Even in jeans and an old Raider’s sweatshirt, he’d looked like a man who could haul her off to jail or liberate a small country. What the hell did he do for a living? Was it bad customer service to ask him if he packed heat?

He was packing something, that was for sure. Damn, just the thought of him warmed her up better than an hour of garden cardio and a gallon of hot coffee.

Speaking of which, he’d offered her a cup when she’d arrived, but she didn’t want to linger in his kitchen, scanning his body for clues to his profession. Or just for fun.

The more she thought of him as a sexy client with big muscles and bedroom eyes, and less like a kindred spirit from her past, the better. Too many fond memories were swimming to the surface—Eddie brushing the hair out of her face when she cried, Eddie laughing at her gallows humor, Eddie admitting he blamed himself for his brother’s death, for no other reason than that he’d survived.

Ancient history. Now she needed to build a professional reputation. Working for low wages at the nursery wasn’t sustainable forever; she had to build a client base and start her own business some day. Property that belonged to a wealthy man—most of the patients at the Center had been rich kids, so she wasn’t surprised Eddie was loaded—who knew nothing whatsoever about garden design was a great opportunity. She would take before-and-after pictures for her portfolio. The design would have to be original, photogenic, practical.


Just as she was putting the sketch back in her pocket, she heard her cell phone ringing from inside her backpack on the patio. She ran over to get it, seeing it was Jake at the nursery. “Yes?”

“Listen, Melissa,” Jake said. “Sorry, but Leo’s with me today. Rush job. Just came up.”

The plan had been for Leo to remove the weeds, amend the soil, and finish the drip irrigation system.

Her spirits fell. “All day?”

“Looks like,” he said. “He’ll be there first thing Monday. You were just doing prep today, Ian said. Not planting. It can wait.”

She clenched her teeth. Having no seniority sucked. “What should I tell the client?”

“He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. It’ll get done soon enough. But tell him you’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Right.” She hung up just as Eduardo stepped out onto the patio.

“Everything OK?” he asked.

She explained.

Propping his hands on his hips, he looked over at the ground. “What’s the matter with the dirt the way it is?”

“It needs a little work before we bury things in it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “It’ll help the plants thrive in the long term.”

“What plants?”

“Well, we need to talk about what you’d like other than the star jasmine.” She pulled out her sketch. “I’ve got a few ideas here for you to—”

“They’re great. Go ahead.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “You have too much faith in me.”

“I don’t think so.” He smiled, creases forming at the corners of his deep, warm eyes. “I trust you. Whatever you do is fine with me.”

A little disappointed, she refolded the sketch. Last night she’d imagined walking through the nursery, showing him the plants she had in mind, getting his enthusiastic, informed approval.

Who was she kidding? She just wanted an excuse to get close to him. Inhale some testosterone.

“You know,” he said suddenly, rubbing the dark whiskers along his jaw, “maybe I would like to know what you’re planting first before I give the green light. Just in case.”

Her heart skipped. “I think that’s very smart of you,” she said. “Can you meet at the nursery in about an hour?”





5


THEIR STROLL THROUGH THE NURSERY was as erotically charged as she’d hoped and feared. He’d upgraded the sweatshirt to a black leather jacket, but kept the faded jeans and the smooth baritone, which he inflicted upon her with the occasional “nice,” “beautiful,” and “mmmmmm.”

And he’d arrived on a motorcycle.

Of course he had.

“Native ferns are good for dry shade,” she said, holding up a four-inch nursery pot.