Page 67 of Guarded Love

“Herb garden!” David says, like he’s won a prize. He offers me a fist bump, which I ignore so completely he has to awkwardly drop it by his side. “Guess we’re the dream team, huh?”

“If the dream is dehydration and insect bites, then sure,” I deadpan, adjusting my bag higher on my shoulder.

"I'm Silas,” a voice interrupts, saving me from having to respond further to David's enthusiasm. A man who looks to be in his mid-fifties approaches us as he’s wiping his hands on a faded towel. "I'll be showing you the herb garden today."

He tells us to follow him with a quick gesture and turns to head down a dirt path. I fall into step behind him, conscious of Blaise and David flanking me like some bizarre honor guard.

"The herbs we grow here supply local restaurants and community kitchens," Silas explains as we walk. "Many are traditional medicinal plants too and things my grandmother used to grow. Today we need to weed, trim back the overgrowth, and reorganize some sections." Silas points to a shed nearby. "Gloves, tools, everything you need is in there. I'll show you what needs doing."

He hands each of us a pair of gardening gloves that have seen better days. Mine are too big, the fingers extending a good inch past my own. David immediately offers to swap his for mine.

"I've got bigger hands anyway," he says with a wink that makes me want to throw the gloves at his face.

If he is alluding to what I think he is, throwing the gloves in his face is the nicest thing I can do right now. I’m so temptedto test his reflexes, but that might give him the wrong idea or worse, turn him on.

"I'm good," I say, already shoving my hands into them.

"Here," Silas says, handing each of us a small trowel and some clippers. "The basil needs trimming back and please be careful not to cut the new growth. The thyme needs weeding around it. The oregano and culantro are over there as well.”

He demonstrates what he wants us to do, and I immediately get nervous. What if I mess this up? It’s then I remember I didn’t take my medication this morning, instead choosing to double dose myself with caffeine. This is going to be a hot mess. Literally and figuratively.

"Any questions?" Silas asks, looking between the three of us.

"I think we've got it," Blaise says, his voice cutting through my panic. He's pulling on his gloves.

"Great! I'll check on you in about an hour." He gives us a nod before heading toward the next group.

I stare at the herb garden before me. The plants are beautiful but jumbled together. I swear I can already feel sweat trickling down my back, and the sun isn't even at full strength yet.

"I'll take the oregano and sage," David volunteers, flashing that toothpaste-commercial smile.

"I'll handle the basil," Blaise says quietly. He doesn't look at me as he crouches down near a bushy section of plants.

Which leaves me with the thyme. Perfect. Weeding in this heat while my brain races in seventeen directions at once. I kneel down on the dirt and the moisture from the ground immediately makes me feel uncomfortable.

"Fuck," I whisper, shifting to find a drier spot. There isn't one.

I dig my trowel into the dirt around the thyme plants and pause as I try to distinguish between what should stay and whatneeds to go. The weeds look suspiciously similar to the actual herbs, and I immediately think I’m going to mess this up.

"You need to dig deeper," Blaise says from behind me. I nearly jump out of my skin.

"Jesus! Don't sneak up on people holding sharp objects."

"Sorry." He doesn't sound sorry. He sounds distracted. "The weeds have deeper roots. You're just getting the tops."

He's right behind me now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. Not looking. Not helping. Just...hovering.

"I've got it," I snap and push the trowel deeper.

I let go of the trowel as I try to adjust these ridiculous gloves for the fifth time in what feels like ninety seconds. They keep bunching at my wrists and the extra fabric makes it impossible to grip anything properly.

"Having trouble there?" David materializes beside me, his smile as bright as the sun beating down on us.

"I'm fine," I mutter, yanking at the loose strap dangling from my wrist.

"Here, let me." He doesn't wait for permission. Instead, he takes his own gloves off and reaches for my hand. "These old gloves have a trick to them."

I’m pretty sure the trick is that he just wants an excuse to touch me. And the desire to call him out on it is there.