Late morning, when there was finally a lull, I grabbed a watering can, filled it, and stepped outside to tend the blue roses spilling from the long window box.I’d ditched the heels for flat leather sandals and rolled the sleeves of my linen blouse, the fabric already clinging in the Texas heat.
The sun beat down on my shoulders like it had a personal grudge.It wasn’t even noon, and the pavement shimmered like a mirage.
I tipped the can, watching the water darken the soil.The simple, repetitive motion was weirdly soothing—until a shadow crossed the street.
My heart did a ridiculous little hop.
Owen McAllister crossed from the antique store, hands in his pockets, the morning sun haloing his messy hair.He smiled, slow and easy, and the hop in my chest turned into a full-on dance.
His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he was ready to pitch in if I asked.Faded jeans.Scuffed work boots.Nothing tailored, nothing precious.He looked like someone who knew how to fix things instead of billing by the hour.
He was the opposite of Wall Street polish—and I found, to my surprise, that I liked this far better.Especially on him.
“Morning,” he called.“Aren’t you giving those a bit too much water?”
I jerked my attention back to the window box.Water was spilling out the bottom and running over the lip like a tiny waterfall.I yanked the can upright.
“Great,” I muttered.
He stopped a few feet away, all rumpled good looks and stubble and unfairly broad shoulders.Up close, he smelled faintly of soap and sun-warmed cotton, like he’d stepped out of the day instead of a boardroom.
“First day alone?”
“Yes.”That came out way too bright.I tightened my grip on the can.
“How’s the house?”he asked.
I shifted, suddenly aware of sweat trickling down my spine and the fact that my hair was probably doing something tragic in this humidity.Small talk.He wanted small talk.Why did small talk with him feel like an oral exam?
“How’d you know I moved in?”I asked.
He tipped his head, amused.“Everyone knows.Small town, remember?”
Right.Hickory Hollow.Where privacy went to die.
He nodded at the planter again.“You only need to dampen the soil.If the water’s running off, you’re drowning them.”
“How do you know that?”I challenged.
He shrugged, unbothered.“I’m no florist, but I do a little gardening.Light gardening,” he added, flashing that grin that made my stupid knees consider giving out.
He was drawing me in without even trying.I hated that.I hated that I liked it.
“I have to get back to work,” I blurted, before my brain could betray me any further.
I flung open the door and strode inside.The bell chimed brightly, foiling my attempt at a dramatic exit.A moment later, footsteps followed.Of course he came in.
“Me too,” Owen said easily, glancing at his watch.“I’ve got to get back to the store.But first—would you like to have lunch with me?”
I froze mid-step.
Lunch.With him.The town hottie.My stupid heart swooped, and heat flashed through my whole body before I could stomp on the feeling.
It was lunch.Not a proposal.Not a forever.But still—
“Stop looking at me like that,” I said, setting the watering can in the sink a little too hard.
“Like what?”His smile softened into something shy.
