Just Can't Forget You: Oakland Hills Short Story 2 (Oakland Hills #3.5)(9)

It wasn’t like she was working in her own garden, or next door—it was his dirt she was straining to mix and rearrange, or whatever the hell she was doing.

Why couldn’t she just dig a little hole and put in the little plants? Why did she have to bring cubic feet of more dirt? She’d pulled up in a pickup and spent the first hour hauling wheelbarrows full of the stuff through the side yard. At least for that first hour she’d had help, another guy from the nursery, but he’d driven off with the truck as soon as it was unloaded.


Something about her had always felt right: the sound of her voice over the phone, the sight of her at the nursery, the feel of her hand in his. The memory of what they’d both shared as teenagers. Not together, but separately, a trauma that others couldn’t understand.

But something had changed since yesterday. Seeing her ex had bothered her, and that bothered Eduardo. They’d been having fun, flirting, getting closer, but now she was remote, serious, and quiet. Back to business.

He watched her push the wheelbarrow over the patio, saw how it wobbled, caught in the flagstones.

He got to his feet. His parents obviously couldn’t see him from their house in Sacramento ninety miles away, but he could feel their critical gaze nonetheless. He deposited his coffee mug on the counter, strode over to the closet to put on a pair of old running shoes, and in a minute he was outside, tapping her on the shoulder.

“Tell me what to do,” he said.

Her eyes were hidden under giant sunglasses with scratched amber lenses. “You don’t do anything. That’s why you hired us.”

“I don’t see an ‘us,’” he said. “I only see a ‘you.’” And I want to go on seeing you.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ll be finer with a little assistance.” Although she was plenty fine to him in every other way.

She sighed. “Your khakis will get dirty.”

Did she really think he was the kind of guy who’d care about that? What else did she think?

Removing her sunglasses, she continued, less sure of herself now. “They look nice. Your pants.”

He glanced down at himself. Banana Republic’s clearance rack, twenty bucks, if he remembered correctly. But he liked to think she’d been checking out his lower half. He put his hands on his hips and grinned. “Thank you.”

Because she was already flushed from working, he couldn’t tell if any of the pink in her cheeks was thanks to him.

“If you have to do something, you could refill my water bottle,” she said.

“I’m not sure I can handle that. I might get my fingers wet. Spoil my manicure.”

The sunglasses went back in place. “Fine, I’ll do it.” She turned, plucked a green plastic bottle off the patio, and marched into the house.

All according to plan. He picked up the shovel she’d propped against the fence and commenced digging.

“What are you doing?” she cried behind him.

He excavated a mound of the fluffy brown stuff she’d hauled in, moving it a few feet to the right. “I’m helping.”

To his annoyance, she laughed. “You’re just randomly moving dirt around.”

“How is that different from what you were doing?”

Her smile blinded him. The dimple in her left cheek was deeper than the one in her right, giving her face an adorably lopsided charm. “I was mixing the compost into the native soil,” she said, “loosening up the clay a little bit.”

“Exactly what I was doing,” he said.

Laughing again, she wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her arm and took a drink from her water bottle. When she leaned her head back, the sight of her exposed throat, glistening with sweat, made him tighten his grip on the shovel.

Then she lowered the bottle and nodded. “All right, since you insist.” She pointed at the dirt. “We want to dig down about two feet here and mix in the compost.”

“That deep? Really? Doesn’t your boss have a machine for that?”

“It’s too small to bother,” she said.

“Then I’ll pay you to do the entire yard.”

Still smiling, she put down her water bottle, picked up a second shovel, and began digging a few feet from him. “First things first.”

Seeing her smile was worth the hit to his ego. Much better than the withdrawn, unhappy woman of the early morning.

With his help, she’d forget the blond surfer. It would be his pleasure.

If he could convince her to give him—them—a chance.





8


AROUND THREE O’CLOCK, MELISSA STOOD up and stretched her arms over her head, trying to ease the cramp in her back. She had to admit: repotting perennials was a lot easier on the soft tissues than amending clay soil for four hours. The thought of a hot, tension-releasing shower was now as appealing as her client—who, to her relief, had disappeared inside the condo a half hour earlier.

Actually putting the plants in the ground and laying some drip irrigation tubing would be fast work compared to this; she’d only have to come back one more day.

And then…

In spite of herself, she’d been thinking a lot about how long this business relationship of theirs would last. Rather, how brief it would be.


Shaking her head, she dug her knuckles into her lower back, wishing the pain would drive the lustful thoughts from her mind.