The garden is immaculate. There isn’t a weed in sight, and my flowers have been pruned. There’s fresh dirt around some of the plants and I can still see the damp places where they’ve been watered. The air huffs out of me like a blow to the stomach. The caretakers aren’t supposed to touch my garden. Whenever I’m home I make sure to tell them to let me do all the work. It’s less for them to do and stress relief for me.
After the rejection and the argument with my dad, this feels like the last straw. I missed out on taking care of my garden by what may have been just a few minutes. The loss of the work and the feeling of betrayal from someone else tending my plants, everything releases the anger I’ve been holding in. I leave my garden and head further into the grounds. The caretaker is here somewhere and I’m going to make sure they know this was a mistake: no one touches my garden but me.
Coming around one of the tall hedges that gives us privacy, I see the telltale blue polo of one of our caretakers. He’s watering the flowerbeds at the edge of a fountain, and I can’t see which of our staff it is since he’s facing away from me.
“Hey!” I call out to him, but he doesn’t turn. He’s next to the fountain, so maybe he didn’t hear me. I jog over to him and tap him on the shoulder. “Hey. Are you the one who did work in the private garden?”
He turns around, and all my irritation evaporates as the words that were forming leave my mouth. In fact, every thought flies out of my head except one: That is one fucking hot gardener.
I have a hard time breathing, because I’m trying to take it all in and also make it look like I’m not staring. And not salivating. I’m not doing that, right? Tan skin, dark hair, dark eyes, and arms that are bursting out of that stupid polo the company makes them wear. If the rest of his body is like his arms…damn.
“Private garden?” he asks, confusion written all over his face.
Oh. Right. I’m supposed to be here to yell at him about the garden. “Yeah.” I say, trying to form words. “The garden that’s fenced off. No one on the staff is supposed to take care of it. It’s my garden—I do the work.” I’m finding it hard to be mad anymore, and to be honest I can’t fault what he did there. His work was flawless, and I wonder if his work in other areas is equally flawless. Wonder if he’s as good with his hands as he seems to be… I rein in my thoughts from the path they’re going down. What is wrong with me?
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know. I’m…new.”
I nod, resigned to the fact that my anger is gone and that it was misplaced to begin with. This isn’t about my garden. It’s about my dad, my job, my entire life spinning out of my control. I force a smile. “It’s okay, and you did a good job. But you don’t need to do anything in there from now on. I like to do it.”
He gives me a smile in return, and I feel my pulse kick up a few solid notches. “I’m sorry for the oversight, and I’ll remember that. The plants just really looked like they wanted some attention.” I could swear his eyes stray down my body for half an instant, but maybe I imagined it.
“How bad was it?” I ask.
“It honestly wasn’t too bad. A few weeds here and there, some deadfall to trim, but nothing terrible,” he says, his eyes warm. “First time back in a while? Maybe you were away on vacation, or…?”
“I wish.” I run a hand through my hair in frustration. “I’ve actually been busy with these job interviews and stuff. It’s all I think about. And then today…” I gesture blindly toward the house, unable to put into words the conflict with my dad. Not to mention he’s a total stranger. I can’t believe I’m standing here confessing all of this. “Anyway, I was just hoping to blow off some steam,” I finish. “I’m Vera.” I hold out my hand, which he takes.
A hot jolt runs through me. His grip is firm and his hands are rough and calloused. I can feel my cheeks heating. “I’m James London,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”
I nod, reluctantly letting go of his hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”
I look back toward the house, and see someone at the patio doors. It’s been only a few minutes since I left, and I’m sure it’s my mother looking out to check on me. I imagine her seeing me talking to a caretaker and smile. There’s an opportunity here, and I’m not going to waste it. I look back at James. “Do you need any help?”
His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “You want to help me?”