Page 76 of Arranged To Be Mine

Beau had gone still. He didn’t ask questions or push me to say anything else.

“That’s what made me want to make this my happy place. It was the first thing I did when I bought the house. The greenhouse was a hot mess. I had it restored and had new soil brought in.” I gestured at the beds surrounding us. “Before I even unpacked the kitchen boxes, I was out here planning where everything would go.”

“That makes sense,” he said. “Connecting to something that mattered.”

“Plus, there’s no one out here judging me.” I pulled a stubborn dandelion from between two mums. “No worrying about being too feminine or too masculine or whatever arbitrary standard I’m supposed to be meeting that day.”

“Just you and the dirt.”

“Exactly.”

He reached for another plant. I watched him grip it at the base and reached out to put my hand on his forearm.

“That’s a petunia.”

He froze. “It’s who?”

“That’s not a weed. That’s a petunia. I planted it there on purpose. Flowers. Pretty flowers. We want those.”

He released it like it was on fire, holding his hands up in surrender. “They all look the same to me.”

“They really don’t.” I pointed to the scraggly, tall thing next to it. “That’s a weed. See how the leaves are different? Rougher edges. And it’s growing faster than everything around it.”

He squinted at both plants, clearly not seeing any difference whatsoever. “If you say so.”

“I do say so. Trust the expert.”

He moved to the next section. I had to stop him twice more from pulling out actual plants. The third time, he nearly uprooted one of the daffodil bulbs that had worked its way to the top.

“Okay, new rule,” I said. “Point before you pull. I’ll tell you yes or no.”

“This is harder than it looks. How do you know what you want to keep?”

“I watched my mom and like I said, YouTube.”

We kept moving. He’d point, I’d nod or shake my head, and slowly the bed started looking less like a jungle. He wasn’t a natural. Not by any stretch. His plant identification skills were nonexistent. But he kept at it, dirt accumulating under his nails and streaked across his face from where he’d swatted at the insects taking advantage of the setting sun.

I found myself stealing glances at him more than I should have. The flex of his forearms as he worked. His back stretching under his shirt. The occasional muttered curse when a particularly stubborn weed refused to cooperate.

This wasn’t how I’d expected to spend my evening. Wasn’t how I’d expected to feel after basically telling him I needed to keep things professional. But here he was, on his knees in my garden, getting dirty for no reason other than I’d asked.

“So,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime.”

He ignored the jab. “We need to make another public appearance soon. Keep the momentum going.”

I sighed, sitting back on my heels. “Oh great. Another party?”

“Actually, I was thinking something less structured. But much more public.”

“Where?”

He grinned, that spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. “The beach.”

I wrinkled my nose before I could stop myself. “I’m not really a beach person.”

“You live in LA and you don’t like the beach?” He stared at me like I’d just admitted to hating puppies. “How is that possible?”