“First, figure out where you want the garden.”
I cock my head and scan the yard. “How about over there?”
“What are you growing?”
“Vegetables.”
He nods and waves me along as he starts walking toward the spot. “Vegetables need a good amount of sunlight. You should start small and then build on as you get more comfortable with it.”
I use my hand as a visor over my eyes. “How do you know so much about this?”
His chin drops, and his voice softens. “My mom loved growing vegetables. She was the only one on the block who had the concrete in the backyard removed and replaced with soil.”
A smile blooms on my face. “What did she grow?”
“Zucchini, tomatoes, eggplant, cucumbers, and some herbs. She liked to make her own sauce with fresh ingredients.”
“I bet it tasted amazing.”
“It did. Josie tries to replicate it, but it just isn’t the same.” His eyes dart up to mine. “Don’t tell her I said that.”
I wink. “Secret’s safe with me.”
“What made you want to start a garden?”
I pick at the frays on my shorts. “Just wanted something to keep me busy, I guess.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “If this is wrong to ask, just tell me, but don’t you get bored sitting home all day?”
Maybe it’s because of the honest way he asked, or maybe I’m just dying to be honest with someone for once. Dying for someone who understands.
I look into Cole’s cobalt eyes, and I let the word yes fall from my lips. “That’s why I want to grow a garden. I love to cook. I’ve always dreamed of opening my own restaurant.” I laugh, shaking my head as if it will shake the thought from my mind. “Somehow, growing a vegetable garden seemed comparable. It’s stupid, really.”
Cole takes a step toward me, and ever so slowly, he tucks his finger under my chin and lifts it until I’m sucked into his hypnotizing gaze. “It’s not stupid at all, Callie. You should go after the things you dream about. The things that make you happy.”
My heart pounds, and my knees tremble under me, but not because I’m scared of Cole. It’s because I’m scared of believing him. Scared of the notion that it is, in fact, possible to have the things I long for.
To feel happiness again.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
Cole’s eyes tighten. “Why not?”
I want to open up to him, want to fling myself into his arms and beg him to take me far, far away. But that would only continue to mask the problem. My problem.
Cole can’t save me. I don’t need saving. I’m not some damsel in distress locked in her ivory tower. I make my own choices, and I’ve made my bed here. I have a wonderful life filled with wonderful things. Life’s not always perfect, but I have to appreciate what I have.
Things could always be worse.
I pull away from Cole, and he lets the conversation die. He shows me how to measure the area and then the pieces of wood. I’m eager to get my hands on the saw, but he says it’s best to remeasure before we cut anything. I don’t argue. This is the longest he’s gone without a scowl on his face.
I like this side of him. Easygoing. In his element. Calm. Nothing like the wound-up, abrasive version I’ve come to expect.
With the tool belt on. Let’s not forget that part.
It turns out, I get enjoyment out of sawing. It’s an exertion of physical energy and manual labor that makes me feel strong and capable. Sweat beads along my skin as I push and pull the saw, back and forth, back and forth, and when I cut through each block, a surge of confidence runs through me.
I needed this.
I pound the nails into each corner, and once the box is constructed, we stand back and admire my work.
Cole removes his hat and wipes his forehead with his T-shirt, revealing a spectacular set of abs. Deep grooves separate each cube, and two ridges are carved into each side of his pelvis. Droplets of sweat trickle down his torso, and my eyes follow them on their descent, leading down into the waistband of his tattered jeans.
Heat crawls over my skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.
Cole puts his cap back on, and his face twists in disgust as he glances over my shoulder. “Uh, I think your dog’s eating something.”
I snap out of the trance I’m in and rush over to Maverick. “Stop that! Gross, Maverick! Come on.”
Maverick darts away from the scene of the crime and takes off running around the outskirts of the yard.
I groan. “The vet said he eats his own poop because he’s anxious.”
“Looks like he’s doing it because he likes it.”
I snort. “I think maybe you’re right.”
“What does a dog have to be anxious about? They have the life.”
I open my mouth to answer, but then the back door slides open, and Paul steps out onto the patio. Maverick barks and runs toward him like he’s been shot out of a cannon.
My stomach flops when I see the perplexed expression on Paul’s face, his brown eyes bouncing between me and Cole.
I push up a smile and wave my arms like Vanna White, gesturing to the garden bed. “Hey. Look what I made!”
Paul moves slowly, like a lion ready to pounce on its prey.
Cole steps forward, moving in front of me, angling his body.
Like a shield.
When Paul reaches me, he moves around Cole and snakes his arm behind my back and pulls me against him. His lips dip down to meet mine, but they’re hard and unforgiving.
I pull back to look at him. “It’s a garden box.”
“I see.” He glares up at Cole, his fingers digging into my hip.
Cole’s scowl is back in place, fists balled at his sides.
“Cole offered to teach me how to build it,” I say, attempting to break the awkward ego showdown.
“I bet he did.”
The corner of Cole’s mouth twitches. “I’ll get this cleaned up and be out of your hair.”
“Thank you for your help.” I pry myself out of Paul’s possessive hold. “I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime.” Cole gives me a tight nod and turns to collect his things.
Paul stands still as a statue, watching Cole until he’s out of our yard. Then he turns and walks into the house, leaving me outside as if I’m not even here.
“Come on, Maverick. Let’s go in. It’s dinnertime.”
Maverick trots behind me, and when we step into the kitchen, Paul’s already scooping Maverick’s food into his metal bowl.
“How was your day?” I approach him with tentative steps.
“Go take a shower. You’re filthy. We’ll talk over dinner.”
My stomach twists into a knot. I rush up the stairs and make my shower quick. Letting my hair air dry, I throw on a pair of lounge shorts and a T-shirt and head back downstairs.
Paul’s sitting in the dining room with the lights off again, drinking a glass of scotch. I wonder how many he’s had while I was upstairs. The setting sun casts a sliver of light through the window, streaking across his face, giving him a menacing glow.
“Want the light on?”
He shakes his head. “Just hurry up with dinner. I’m starving.”
My head jerks back, but I say nothing. I need to diffuse the situation, not make things worse.