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“No, I…” Jackson stopped and drew in a breath to clear his head. The air smelled like wildflowers, heady and fresh, although he’d bet even money that it had nothing to do with the adjacent garden.
He blew the breath out in a slow exhale. “I’m really sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to bring up the subject, which is obviously a sore one, and it threw me for a bit of a loop. That still doesn’t excuse the fact that I acted like an ass. Truce?”
“It doesn’t seem very fair that you get to apologize when I don’t, you know.”
He cracked a smile, testing the waters. All of this serious stuff was giving him the sweats. “Okay. I’m not sorry for being an ass.”
She smiled right back, her full lips parting just enough to make Jackson swallow hard.
“I accept your non-apology.”
And that was that. Carly slipped around him on the path, her flip-flops sounding out a mutedsnickagainst the dirt as she headed toward the warm grass at the clearing’s edge. It only took him two strides to catch up to her, and there was just enough room for them to walk side by side, although he took up twice as much space as she did. They arrived at the edge of the garden, and Carly stopped short, her eyes wide.
“Wow. This garden isgorgeous,” she said, scanning the large rectangular plot with awe.
Jackson grinned. “Yeah, it is really pretty, isn’t it?”
Even though he’d seen the garden no less than a million times—hell, he had tilled two of the three garden beds himself just after puberty—he had to admit, the sight of it in full bloom was pretty impressive. Three separate, ten-foot-long rectangular beds graced the open space of the garden area, all slightly raised and surrounded by rough-hewn, wood beam borders. Strips of dark grass divided the space like lush, green carpet runners, extending around the beds in neatly trimmed paths. The area was walled in on two sides by a stretch of thick boxwoods that easily reached Jackson’s chest, their imposing height softened by the variegated celadon and cream leaves of the hostas springing up from the ground like botanical fountains before them. Dense vines and open-faced blooms of gently climbing clematis snaked over the length of fence that Jackson and Dylan had put up along the long edge of the garden opposite where he and Carly stood, a Mother’s Day present from five years ago.
“Oh, you have watermelons!” Carly leaned forward to peek at the far edge of the first bed. “We never had enough room for anything like that. And these tomatoes are gorgeous. There must be six different varieties out here,” she crowed, eyes glittering.
“Seven. My mother got hooked on different kinds—heirlooms, stuff like that—one year when I was in high school, and just can’t seem to resist planting them. Not that I’m complaining, because I could eat fried green tomatoes all day long,” Jackson replied, starting to amble down the swath of grass separating the first two beds.
Carly wandered after him, taking it all in. “Yeah, we always had a couple different varieties too. Nothing like this, though. God, I wish I could get my hands on a place like this for the restaurant.” She paused mid-stride, one foot halfway lifted off the grass. “Are those cherry tomatoespurple?”
“Ah, black cherries. They’re my favorite, although she grows the Cherokee purples too.”
“Now those I’ve seen before.” Carly pointed to the cage with fat, plentiful Cherokee purple heirloom tomatoes in various stages of readiness, some still celery-green, others already blooming into their color like a summer sunset. “And most of these others, too. But I have to admit, these cherry tomatoes are a bit of a mystery to me.”
He leaned in and twisted a few of the much smaller black cherry tomatoes from their sturdy vines, the dark, miniature globes still warm from the sun. Although he’d eaten them countless times, the flavors still burst on his tongue like they’d never been there before, and he popped the tomatoes into his mouth one by one to savor the rich sweetness in each bite.
“Do you want to try some?” He motioned toward the vines that hung on like strong, velvety fingers, dangling the jewel-like tomatoes from the leafy crowns.
Despite the whole kid-in-a-candy-store vibe she had going on, Carly hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to impose.” She looked at the tomatoes—the whole garden, really—with a strange kind of reverence, and something rippled low in his gut, the tiny whisper that begged him to take note even though his brain insisted the whole thing was totally off the wall.
Feed her, it said.
“Once, maybe ten years ago, I came down the path to haul away a bunch of branches that had fallen in a nasty rain storm, and after I was done, I stopped to check on the garden. I meant to take a quick look for any damage and head back up to the house, but these little buggers just kind of called out to me, you know? Before I knew it, I’d eaten every last one of them, right off the vine.” Jackson laughed softly. He had no clue what made him think of it, but the memory unfurled in his mind like table linens fresh off the line, as if it were only hours old rather than an entire decade ago.
Carly’s laugh was spun sugar, sweet and indulgently good. “Jackson, there have to be fifty or sixty cherry tomatoes between the two of these plants,” she said, as if she’d heard wrong. “You ateallof them?”
“Yeah, my mother couldn’t quite believe it either. Until I walked around holding my stomach for the rest of the day, groaning like an idiot.”
“Too much of a good thing,” she affirmed, and it wasn’t a question. “Was she mad?”
“Nah. This garden produces way more than my ma can eat, so she ends up sharing most of it anyway. Even the neighbors get more than they can eat, so I don’t think she’d really mind if you wanted to try a handful.”
Carly eyed the plant, running her fingers along the edges of the wiry vines. Her hands were small, but far from delicate, and a thin, white scar slashed its way across her left index finger. Jackson frowned at the faded line, wondering how she’d gotten it.
“Okay, then. But I promise not to pick the entire plant clean,” Carly said with a twist of her lips, her movements careful and deliberate as she freed a small handful of tomatoes from the vines.
“Once you taste them, you might change your mind.”
With her left palm cupped beneath the tiny mountain of purplish-red fruit, she plucked one from the pile, rolling it between the fingers of her right hand before taking a bite.
“Oh.Oh,” Carly mumbled, immediately popping another tomato into her mouth. “God, that’s good.” She squeezed her eyes shut, as though she was trying to commit the flavors to memory. The tiny crease in her forehead that usually rested just between her brows smoothed out, and she released a barely-there sigh that Jackson was sure she hadn’t been aware of. Of course he’d heard it loud and clear, and it shot through him with swift intention. Destination: his dick.
Shit. Shitcrapshit! How was he supposed to manage a casual conversation with her now that he had the anatomical equivalent of the goddamn Empire State Building in his pants? Jackson winced and adjusted his jeans, thankful that—for the moment at least—Carly’s eyes were still closed. He shifted behind her on the premise of picking a few more cherry tomatoes, fervently praying for a thought that would distract him from the sensual thrill on her face.
