I tore off a strip of soft cloth tie and wrapped it around the vine, leaving room between the stem and the cage. "Like this."
She leaned closer to see.
Too close.
I caught the scent of her sunscreen, light and warm, mixed with clean soap and the faint coffee smell that apparently counted as breakfast in Daphne's world. A bead of sweat slid along the side of her throat.
I kept my hands on the tomato cage.
"Your turn," I said.
My voice came out rougher than I wanted.
Daphne took a tie from the bundle and reached for the next stem. "Loose enough to grow. Knot outside. Don't strangle the tomato."
"That's the goal."
"Seems merciful."
"I try not to bully produce before noon."
She smiled, and for one second, I forgot to care about the sun, the work list, Fletcher, or the fact that the woman in front of me had sixteen hours left under my signature.
Then her tie slipped.
The vine dipped.
She grabbed for it, and I reached at the same time. My hand closed around hers and the stem together.
Everything stopped.
Her glove was rough under my palm. Her fingers tightened. Her eyes flew to mine, wide and startled, but she didn't pull away.
The garden moved around us. Tyler dragged a shovel through compost. Birdie clipped herbs. Gus hammered something near the south fence. A truck passed on the road.
Daphne's lips parted.
Heat moved through me, hard and fast.
I let go first.
"Careful," I said.
The word sounded like it had more than one meaning.
Daphne swallowed. "With the tomato?"
"With all of it."
Her cheeks flushed.
I stood because staying crouched across from her was getting dangerous.
"Finish this side," I said. "I'll check Tyler's pile before he invents a new problem."
"Do you think he can invent new problems with compost?"
"Tyler can invent new problems with air."
