I had no idea what he thought I’d done.
I had no intention of telling him.
But for one reckless second, I wanted him to know I wasn’t the worst thing on my paperwork.
I picked up my tote instead. “Same time tomorrow?”
“If you can walk.”
“I’ll crawl dramatically through the gate if necessary.”
“Please don’t. Birdie will organize an audience.”
“She would.”
“She absolutely would.”
I smiled despite myself.
Zane glanced at my mouth again, quick and controlled, before he opened the shed door wider. “Wear boots if you have them.”
“I own ankle boots with a decorative buckle.”
“No.”
“Loafers?”
“No.”
“Very sturdy sneakers?”
“Better.”
“I’ll try to dress less like a woman who trusts sidewalks.”
“That’d be a start.”
Outside, Birdie waved from the tomato row. Gus lifted one hand. Tyler, sweaty and compost-streaked, gave me a thumbs-up like we’d survived combat together.
Maybe we had, but my shoes had paid the highest price.
I walked toward the gate with my tote over one shoulder and my ruined pink flats making soft, gritty sounds on the path. The sun was high now, pouring hard white light over the beds and the shed and the blue P-Patch sign. My body ached in places I hadn’t introduced myself to yet.
At the gate, I glanced back.
Zane stood by the shed, clipboard in one hand, with that same controlled, unreadable expression.
He wasn’t smiling.
He wasn’t scowling.
He was just watching.
Heat curled low in my belly, slow and inconvenient.
I came here because a judge decided I needed twenty hours in the dirt.
After one morning at Larch Bend P-Patch, I still felt the place where Zane’s fingers had brushed mine all the way to the parking lot.
