“You’ll water the new starts along the east row. Slow soak, low pressure. Don’t blast the soil out from under them.”
“I would never.”
He checked my shoes.
“Not intentionally,” I amended.
He led me to a green hose coiled near the spigot. The east row sat in full sun, small plants tucked into dark soil under little white labels. The leaves looked tender and doomed under my care.
Zane turned the spigot and handed me the nozzle. “This adjusts here.”
His hand closed over mine to show me.
It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t even necessary for more than two seconds. But his palm covered the back of my gloved hand, and his chest was behind my shoulder, and his voice dropped near my ear.
“Gentle pressure,” he said. “Let the water settle in. Don’t rush it.”
My pulse kicked hard.
The hose sputtered.
Water shot sideways and hit Zane directly across the front of his shirt.
For one frozen second, neither of us moved.
Then Tyler made a strangled sound from the compost pile.
Birdie said, “Oh, my.”
Gus said, “Direct hit.”
I stared at the wet streak across Zane’s black shirt. The fabric clung to his stomach and chest, outlining muscle I had no business noticing.
My face went up in flames.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to. The nozzle betrayed me.”
Zane looked down at himself, then at the hose, then at me.
Water dripped from the hem of his shirt.
His expression should’ve been irritated.
Instead, his eyes were bright with restrained laughter. “You always blame the equipment?”
“When the equipment is guilty.”
“The nozzle was in your hand.”
“Under duress.”
“From water?”
“From supervision.”
That did it.
Zane laughed.
