It lasted one second, maybe less, and it was enough.
Then he turned away and hung the hose on its hook. “Let’s get you signed out.”
My pulse kept racing like it hadn’t received the memo.
Inside the shed, the air was cooler and dimmer. Zane took down the clipboard and wrote the date, start time, end time, and four hours in the neat boxes beside my name.
Four hours were finished.
My first four hours were done.
Only sixteen remained.
That should’ve felt like a sentence.
Instead, while Zane signed his name in firm black ink, I caught myself staring at the strong line of his wrist and thinking about tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I could wear better shoes.
Tomorrow, I could bring water.
Tomorrow, I could stop reacting to my site supervisor like community service had been designed by poor judgment.
Zane clicked the pen and handed me the clipboard. “Initial here.”
I did.
Our fingers brushed when I gave it back.
It was a small touch, nothing, less than nothing.
My breath still caught.
Zane’s hand paused for a fraction of a second on the clipboard before he hung it back on the wall.
He stepped away first.
That was good, responsible, professional, and infuriating.
“You did well today,” he said.
The words landed softly because he sounded like he meant them.
I looked down at myself: dirt-streaked blouse, borrowed gloves, ruined flats, hair falling around my face. “I look like I lost a fight with the concept of agriculture.”
“You kept going.”
My throat tightened again.
“I need the hours,” I said.
“That’s not the same thing.”
No, it wasn’t.
I looked at him then. Really looked.
Zane McCrae stood in the shed doorway with the garden bright behind him, tattoos down his arms, dust on his boots, andthe kind of steady attention that made a person feel seen and cornered at the same time.
