Birdie laughed loud enough that the peppers got company.
For the next hour, Daphne worked beside me down the south row.
She asked before cutting. She checked each connector. She listened the first time I showed her how to angle the emitters toward the roots, and she corrected her own placement on the next line before I said anything. Dirt streaked one forearm. Sweat dampened the soft hair at her temple. She didn’t rush, and she didn’t quit when the plastic fought her.
She looked up from a stubborn cap. “This one’s stuck.”
I took the line from her. “It’s jammed with grit.”
“After all that work? That seems unfair.”
“Grit will do that.”
“Clearly.”
I pinched the cap, twisted, and popped it loose. A little spray of water hit the front of my shirt.
Daphne’s eyes dropped to the wet spot.
I remembered her hands dragging my shirt up my chest yesterday. Her mouth. Her knees braced against my sides on the dock. Her voice saying my name like she’d forgotten the world could hear.
Daphne’s fingers tightened around the tubing.
I handed the cap back. “Clear it and put it on again.”
She blinked, then nodded. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m now a cap-clearing professional.”
“You’ve had one hour of training.”
“Then I’m seasonal help.”
“I’ve seen worse resumes.”
Her mouth curved. “That’s reassuring or terrifying.”
“Both, usually.”
“Do seasonal experts garden?”
“Not in those shoes.”
“That isn’t a no.”
“It’s close.”
Daphne smiled and held up the cap. “I’m very good at noticing people’s shoes.”
A laugh broke out of me before I could stop it.
Daphne’s face changed when she heard it. Not big. Not dramatic. Her eyes warmed, and her shoulders eased.
I took the cleared cap and put it back on the line. “Keep working.”
“Very mature.”
“Try not to sound disappointed.”
“I was hoping for a community activity.”
