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Still lost in thought, he almost missed
movement out of the corner of his eye. Jerking around, he watched something slither across the lawn away from the flowers. Surprised such a small thing had made her let out such a big scream, he picked the snake up by the back of its head. It was hardly even a foot long.
He laughed. She was afraid of this little worm of a thing? It didn’t seem possible. But as the front door opened and she appeared in the doorway, he lifted it to show her. She pulled to an immediate stop. “Found it,” he called.
“Good,” she said. “So...go kill it.”
He frowned. “I’m not going to kill it. Snakes are good to have around. They eat mice.”
“I don’t have a problem with mice. The mice can stay.”
He was half-tempted to tease her about being so scared. He probably would’ve if he didn’t fear getting a black eye for his trouble.
“I’ll just carry it off then,” he relented, grinning.
B.J. folded her arms across her chest. “Do
whatever you want. I’m going to start supper.”
“You don’t want to finish weeding?” he couldn’t help but ask.
After sending him a dirty look, she spun around and slammed her way back inside.
He took off across the yard, chuckling. After finding the snake a new home, he returned to the flower garden. It was only half weeded. Deciding to take up where she’d left off, he knelt in the dirt and pulled at a dead plant. It’d been nearly three years since he’d done this.
Amy had possessed a black thumb. She’d killed everything she’d ever tried to plant. After a while, Grady had banned her from gardening all together, claiming she was a hazard to the flowers. He’d been 217
the one to keep the plants nice because his wife liked how they looked. But after she’d died, he’d forgotten about them for a good year, too distraught to bother with flowers. When he finally noticed all the weeds, he didn’t see the point in repairing them because there was no one to grow them for.
But if B.J. wanted flowers, he’d grow her
flowers.
****
“You know, if we were in Regency England and
you were a woman, you’d be in half mourning right now?”
Grady paused as he entered the bedroom.
“Excuse me?”
Lying with the covers tucked up to her armpits and a load of pillows propping up her back, B.J.
lifted the paperback in her hand.
“It’s right here.” She pointed to the passage in front of her. “The first year is called deep mourning.
You seclude yourself in your home, cover the windows with crepe and wear all black.”
When he merely blinked as if she’d just read the words in a foreign language, she continued. “The second year is second mourning, and you can take the crepe off the windows. The third year is half mourning, and you can wear gray and lavender and mauve.”
She glanced up and watched him unbutton the
gray shirt he was wearing. As her eyebrows lifted with a see-what-I mean look, he shook his head with an amused lift of his lips. “What in the world are you reading?”
Holding her place with a finger, B.J. turned the spine and read aloud. “It’s called The Trouble With Bluestockings. It’s the first in a series. Jo Ellen lent it to me. And you know what, for a sappy romance, it’s not half bad. There are some great sex scenes in here.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “I’m learning lots 218
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of neat tricks.”
After stripping off his button-up shirt, Grady tugged his undershirt from his jeans. “And why are you reading a romance novel?” he asked, sending her an odd look.
B.J. rolled her eyes and sighed. The man would never get it, would he?
“I’m trying to get in touch with my feminine side.” Duh.
She nearly sighed aloud as he pulled his T-shirt off, leaving his chest bare. His defined pecs glistened in the dim light from her bedside reading lamp. God, he was so beautiful. He probably didn’t even realize his striptease was turning her on like crazy.
“Your feminine side?” He snorted as he sat on the edge of the mattress to tug off his socks. “Why do you want one of those? I like you how you are.”
Stunned, B.J. bolted upright, her finger
unconsciously slipping from the page she’d marked.
“No, you don’t.”
About to toss his socks toward the laundry
hamper across the room, Grady turned to eye her with an incredulous lift of his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” “You can’t like me like this,” she told him in no unnecessary terms. “Every man prefers girly women with their frou-frou hairdos and smelly perfumes.