Page 6 of A Touch of Spring Magic (Southern Love Spells #2)

I t was over an hour later when Jessica and Storm headed back outside. She was both buzzing with ideas and also feeling daunted.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Storm said.

She’d been braced for him to say something snarky, which really wasn’t fair, since he’d spent not only a lot of time filming the acreage, but also uploading the images, explaining them. And running the pictures through his software to make a grid that she could use as a blueprint. He even had a printer that could enlarge everything so she could mount it on the wall to get a better perspective and make notes, even though he preferred to use the tablet as he could continuously make changes.

She nodded and then handed him the thermal mug of a dirty chai latte she’d made him since the temperature had dropped again. She stepped back from him, still feeling a little unsettled by sitting so closely with him at the nook table. She’d tried to keep her distance, but then she’d see something that caught her attention, and she’d lean forward, bump his leg with hers or their arms or hands would brush together.

“Poison anyone lately, Jessica?” He noted her movement. “Should I be worried?”

“If I were going to do that—and I’m not—I’d do it after I got some work out of you, and you handed me the bill.”

“Thinking two steps ahead as always, Jay.”

The way his voice dropped on her nickname did something funny to her tummy, and she sipped her chai to settle herself. Maybe they really could start fresh. Make rules that would work.

He brought the mug to his lips, and she watched, expectantly. She didn’t expect it to be so sexy when he inhaled.

“Chai?”

“A dirty chai.”

“I’m not sure I should ask what that is.”

“Chai with espresso. I have a lot of work ahead of me today.”

“We do,” he reminded her.

“How much are my sisters and Grandma Millie paying you?”

“That’s something I negotiated with them.” His tone didn’t invite a follow-up question, but too bad.

“They can’t go around me, and if I do employ you, then I should make the terms between me and you. We should have a contract.”

She sipped and considered. She’d need to find some money in her budget to supplement if she did contract with him. Grandma Millie was well off. Both Sarah and Meghan made good money, but Chloe was a teacher and vocal coach—wildly educated and skilled but hopelessly underpaid. And Rustin was just starting out with his new restaurant. They didn’t need any additional expenses, but after being fired, neither really did she.

Jessica had never had to worry about money before. She’d had everything she needed. She’d worked in college in a coffee shop, not because she’d needed to, but to have more independence. But she’d always had the reassurance that if she did get in a financial jam, she knew she could get help from her parents in an emergency. Most people never had that luxury. The garden was not an emergency, and she wasn’t ready to share her new status or plans with her parents, not until she had a business plan, budget, and more than four greenhouses filled with starts, a collection of tea plants, and other trees, shrubs and flowering plants that caught her fancy.

“So how much?”

“Let’s just leave it at deeply discounted.”

“Why?” Her suspicion had a hard, chalky taste.

He sipped the chai and looked at her. “It’s something I negotiated with Miss Millie and Meghan. And Chloe had her say.”

“Her say.” That made Jessica laugh a little. “She probably just waved her hands and said, ‘Make it pretty. Do whatever Jessie wants.’”

He looked at her oddly.

“Was that it exactly?”

“No.”

She was about to demand to know what Chloe had said, but something warned her off. It probably didn’t matter. Every atom that made up Chloe was generous. She was so easy to please.

“Seriously. What are you getting out of the great garden disaster rescue project?” Looking at the drone footage had only made her realize how much work she was actually facing, and she was worried that she’d throw in her lot with Storm. Rely on him. Defer to him. Play it too safe like she’d always done. And how much could she ask him to do without feeling exploitative?

“I want to show you something.”

Typical Storm, he didn’t answer any questions he didn’t want to, and he’d already started moving away. She really shouldn’t be noticing the liquid way his body moved through the now early morning light. Nope. She shouldn’t look. But she did and then had to jog to keep up.

He skirted the pond and waded through some high ornamental grasses and weeds that she hadn’t begun to figure out what she should do with.

“I think there was a maze here at one point with a mosaic of some sort.”

“Huh?” Jessica nearly swallowed her chai wrong. “Grandma Millie didn’t say anything about a maze, and we played here as kids. A lot. This was just a lot of grasses and wildflowers. There used to be a lot of livestock on the farm and so the pasture and orchard grasses just started taking over once there was nothing grazing or mowing.”

“I bet there’s still a wild beauty here in late spring, but it needs shape, color and context,” he mused as he swished his hands through the stiff brown grass, although Jessica could see new green shoots at the bottom.

He squatted down, searching more. She joined him.

“Chloe mentioned it once when we were kids.” Jessica tried to remember, but she’d had so many flights of fancy, and Jessica had started maturing, being more practical, whereas Chloe had remained childlike, and a little fey. “She called it a path to nowhere, and once she found a blue tile—she wouldn’t tell me where—but she called it bird art.” The memory built. “Chloe said it was a circle.”

“There is a pattern from the drone picture.” Storm showed her the video, and her breath caught as her imagination engaged.

“It’s a little archaeological ruin. I’ve been doing research. The Cramers were another early settler family who amassed a lot of land—like the Mayes. Some Cramers had studied in England and when they moved to North Carolina in the mid eighteen hundreds they brought their ideas of an English garden with them. Pretentious.”

“The climates are hardly similar,” Storm noted. “Lot of trial and error, I suspect. Let’s figure out our start footprint. I want to know the initial worksite so we can make a plan to build out. You’ll want a focal point in garden.”

Jessica surveyed the waving grass around them. “I’ll want several focal points,” she said, nibbling on her bottom lip, wishing the vision would come as effortlessly as it had to Storm as they’d reviewed the drone footage. “Over time, but I’ll need something beautiful for the party. Do you think…” She paused. No, she was deferring again, but if she’d hired Storm on her own, she’d be paying him for his advice, and maybe that wouldn’t be the same as him taking over.

The problem was, she really wanted an olive grove. That would be so Tuscany, and fit in with the pond and fountain—if she could get it fixed in time. And then perhaps a large pergola with climbing grape and other vines.

“Lavender,” she said dreamily. “What do you think the chances are we could get the fountain working again, fix the pond and reconnect them? Looking at the footage today, this is the center.”

“The heart,” he said softly. “A fitting beginning.”

“Feasible?” she asked, troubled. Would she be wasting too much time and resources trying to resurrect the once elaborate water feature and maybe trying to uncover the mosaic that may or may not have been at the center of a now dead, destroyed maze?

“We can make that happen.”

There was no we , but she didn’t say it because it would sound petty. She’d changed since high school. No reason to believe Storm hadn’t. And just because she’d had so much pushback over the years with several of her former bosses and colleagues, that didn’t mean Storm too would demean her value and contributions.

“I’ll get back into the muck.”

“No. If you want to start with the pond, I’ll rent equipment to suck out the water. We’ll pressure wash, make any repairs to the basin and replace the pump and filtration system. That will give us a clean slate. You want to connect the pond to the fountain, we can re-dredge the canal, do the necessary repairs, add whatever hardscape you want—pavers or pea gravel or a combination, then fill in to soften the edges. Having the pond and a connected water feature sounds like a central place to start.”

Jessica knew it. Just knew it. Already he had a vision and likely wanted her to follow along. Worse, she’d been thinking along the same lines.

“All that sounds expensive and time-consuming.” Jessica chafed at her growing list of things to do and how comfortable Storm was sharing his ideas. She needed to assert herself. The creative vision was hers. This was the chaff from the wheat—she grabbed at a farming analogy from her ancestors. But after years of trusting that numbers and diligence would illuminate her path, she couldn’t shy away from the hard work of the beginning.

“And it sounds like you are already making decisions for or without me,” she said tightly. “When did you plan to share these ideas with me? Show me the budget? The timeline?”

“We spitballed looking at the footage,” Storm shrugged off her question. “Spitballing now. All gardens need a focal point. Or several within defined areas. You want to set a tone, create flow, a visual and sensual feast and experiences for your guests.”

That sounded like it should be in a manual. Storm sent the drone up again.

“Yes. Here.” He leaned into her, sharing the screen. “I think this is where a maze was with some sort of stonework—likely a mosaic in the middle between with the fountain either at the center or the end.”

His enthusiasm was contagious, and Jessica leaned in to look. “The mystery’s intriguing, and you’ll have to make some decisions, priorities.”

“I just wanted to get all the dead stuff cleaned out so I’d have a blank slate. I thought that would best help me to clarify my vision.”

He was quiet for a moment. “It’s a lot of area,” he said. “You’ll want to have your nursery up and running by the party as well.”

She stared at him. Did he think she somehow had thirty-six hours in each day?

“Chloe’s party’s the priority.”

“Feels like, but having the nursery up and running is a solid marketing decision, and you’ll want to capitalize when people are wanting to fill in or switch up their gardens. Not the end of the season. Two birds one stone.”

“I’m not letting Chloe down by acting selfishly.”

“Not selfish to take care of yourself, as you are doing something for Chloe and Rustin. You’ve mentioned a budget. Money concerns. You get the nursery up and running, that puts money in your pocket. Having the water features as a focal point and the Tuscany theme, which is what it sounds like you’re leaning toward, will draw in visitors. Snag their imaginations. With hardscape and plantings you can have different paths lead to different thematic gardens or picnic areas, whatever you want, and you can feature plants that you will carry in your nursery.”

Jessica’s mouth dried. He made it sound so easy.

“The mosaic may be destroyed,” he said, “but the craftmanship back then was exemplary, and the stones and work have been protected from the weather by the overgrowth. Could be worth it to start a little excavation project along with the pond.”

Her heart leapt in excitement, but she shut herself down. She didn’t want to overextend, disappoint Chloe while she followed Storm on some archaeological adventure.

“Remember AP geology when we drove out to Chimney Rock and…”

“It was fun,” she interrupted. “But I’m on a tight timeline for Chloe and Rustin’s party,” she reminded him. “And a tight budget.”

“I checked out the barn,” he said. “It’s in decent repair. I could get it…”

“Chloe can’t have her engagement or bridal shower in a barn. She collects cats like she used to collect Happy Meal toys, but she can’t celebrate her love and future with a bunch of feral cats weaving in and out between guests’ feet. And what if someone is allergic? Or trips? It’s too rustic.”

“Chloe loved the idea of the barn.”

“I’m hosting the party. Not you.”

“I’m your assistant. Let me assist. And two heads are better than one, as are four arms.”

“You make us sound like a Hindu deity.”

“We’re going to need all the help and blessings we can get. Two and a half months sounds like a lot of time, but we’ll mow through it like grass. Lots of work, not so much time, and some days I’ll have to take on other projects to keep some food on the table.”

Her stomach churned. He was doing her a favor. Practically interning so he could build his future, and she was fighting to not cede an inch of control.

“I’ll feed you breakfast and lunch,” she promised—after all, she too had to eat. “And when we have a budget, I’ll supplement as much of your salary as I can since you will be saving me time. But we have a tight budget and tight timeline.”

“We need a master plan for the garden so we can focus where the party will be. I’d suggest near the house for access to the restrooms. I could build a pergola that leads to what we hope will be a mosaic anchored by the fountain and pond.”

It was exactly what she’d been thinking, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about that—yeah, we are on the same page or resentful that she wasn’t bossing it up as she should?

Jessica took a sip of chai to give herself time to think. She was at war. She wanted to wave her independence flag. Have the garden totally reflect her vision, but she only had the thin lines—an inkling—and the party had shoved up her timeline on at least the first section of her project. But Storm was making a lot of sense. And if she worked against him, then Chloe and Rustin’s party wouldn’t be the beautiful celebration she wanted to give her sister and her sister’s fiancé. And it also didn’t feel very good pushing back at Storm so much. He was trying to help—why she wasn’t completely sure, but he was doing her and her sisters a favor. And he’d come home to be closer to family. There was something so admirable, so appealing about that.

And that scared the snot out of her.

“I just—” She stopped, pinched her nose and closed her eyes. Then she shook her head to clear it. “I just wanted to finally follow my dream,” she said softly, not wanting to be a bitch but just to be understood.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing with the farm and the garden and the greenhouses and the nursery?”

He made it sound so black and white.

She nibbled on her lip. “Look we had a history of being frenemies and then friends and then nothing.”

“Ouch,” he deadpanned, and she relaxed. She hadn’t hurt him like she thought. Maybe she had been too arrogant all those years ago thinking she was all that, and that he was falling for her instead of the ruse they’d concocted.

“But we’re so over high school. We’re professionals. Adults. Surely we can put our differences and our past aside and both get what we want.”

“I want to. I do,” she admitted. “But it’s hard to trust.”

“You’re doubting me?”

He sounded so offended, but how did she explain that she was doubting herself?

“I was never the game player, Jessica Maye.”

Who was he kidding? “Your whole life was one game or another.”

“Team sports,” he said, his lips so tight they’d snap his teeth if he wasn’t careful.

Jessica may have been the head cheerleader in high school, and her sorority president her senior year of college, but she’d never been a true team player.

“You’re right. This isn’t going to work.”

“You’re not giving it a chance just like—” He broke off and ran a hand through his hair.

She felt like she’d swallowed a stone. So he hadn’t forgotten high school as much as he pretended he had.

And you have?

Jessica had been on the lookout for betrayal as long as she could remember. Being the cream and cherry on top of the social pyramid in a small Southern town wasn’t for the faint of heart. Nor had the social ladder been an easy-breezy climb at Chapel Hill. And gaining the coveted internship and then the job at her former firm? That had been a dogfight in heels and lipstick and blush.

“I knew you’d try to take over.”

“You’ve always been a gunner, Jay. You can hold your own if you stop running away.”

That stung—mostly because it was true. She was running from herself, from the pleaser, from the fear of failure, from her parents’ disappointment, but she also needed to run toward something, and the nursery was her stand. She couldn’t have thin skin.

“Okay,” she repeated, not even sure what she was agreeing to—not being suspicious? Trusting that she wouldn’t cede control?

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m just a little sensitive right now,” she surprised herself by admitting. “I’ve been thinking about this for a couple of years. Planning, but the scale of work is daunting, and I wasn’t planning on throwing a big garden bash a couple of months after losing my job.”

She had no idea what he was thinking. A million thoughts seemed to play across his beautiful eyes and handsome, wide-open face.

“You were always out in front,” he said. “Charging ahead.”

“So go big or go home is what you’re saying.”

“Thinking it. Life’s all about making adjustments.”

“Punting.” She smiled, as that was one sports analogy she could handle as she’d been a varsity high school cheerleader for three years. “So we’ll figure out a plan together, but I’m still the boss.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Not funny. Don’t ma’am me until I’m my mom’s age.”

“Okay, Jay. Your way.”

She nodded. Sipped her chai and wondered where to start. If he was going to bring in equipment maybe she didn’t have to tackle the pond today, and she tried to stamp down the relief.

And as she stared at him wondering if he was even remotely serious and beginning to play with the idea that he just might be, a hint of a smile graced his full lips, and she saw a hint of a dimple before it was gone.

“We’re burning daylight,” Storm commented. “Ma’am.”

She pulled the gardening gloves from her back pocket and slapped them against his arm.

“No ma’aming,” she reminded him.

“Yes, ma’am.” He caught the gloves and to her shock fed her hands into them. “Boss ma’am. Get to work.”

And then Storm Stevens had the audacity to wink at her.

*

A few hours later Jessica dragged herself away from the garden and back to the house. Storm had returned with the equipment he needed to drain and scrub out the pond, and even with her earbuds in and some Taylor Swift songs on low, she was tired of the machine hum and slurp of filthy liquid.

She washed up in the outdoor sink and slipped off her gardening boots.

She’d never eaten breakfast, only downed two coffees, so she was ready for food, but as she stood at the fridge pulling out her homemade bread and sandwich fixings, she tried to be practical. She needed to eat. Storm needed to eat. There was nothing lunch date about it. Sandwiches weren’t a subliminal message that she wanted to turn their verbal sparring verging on flirting into a true flirtation.

And panic again.

No she’d been practical. If a bit high-handed. Okay, a lot. And she’d regretted her aloof dismissal for far longer than Storm had likely thought about her.

“No romance here,” she murmured but couldn’t help wondering what were his favorites. Should she ask or would that seem…intimate?

No. Feeding people doing a job was in the Maye blood. Grandma Millie had owned the mill diner as had her mother before her.

‘Food is love,’ Grandma Millie would often remind them. Jessica glanced at the book, out on the counter again—Storm must have looked at it, again. Her gaze lingered on the title. Maybe she was being too literal. Food was love so cooking it for friends, family and employees was an act of love.

“Huh.” Jessica reached out to trace the letters, but jammed her hand back in her pocket.

Maybe the book really was a family heirloom and Grandma Millie was trying to send her a message that it was safe to return to her roots, that she was making the right decision and would succeed. But wouldn’t she have told them?

Shaking off her questions, Jessica made two chicken salad sandwiches, added coleslaw, pickles, apple slices and oatmeal raisin and pecan cookies. She hesitated. The plate, complete with a fork and linen napkin and glass of sweet tea looked glaringly domestic. Had she become one of the still-single women in town who’d line up, family casserole in hand, whenever a new, uncommitted man moved to town? She couldn’t imagine how many women had greeted Storm’s return with a ‘family dish’ and their number to return it.

Her stomach jumping with unaccustomed nerves, Jessica ventured back outside to the now quiet garden and walked toward the pond area.

Storm strolled toward her with an empty wheelbarrow.

“Got most of it,” he said cheerfully. “And I’ve started a new impressive compost pile by one of the former berry fields, if you ever plan to rescue and rehab those and farm again. Jams and jellies and sauces would fly off the shelf of the nursery.”

In all her spare time.

“That’s a future Jessica decision,” she said, startled by how much he had accomplished, and the fact that his suggestion had seemed natural, casual, not a judgment that had her defensively ready to verbally pounce back.

Instead she pictured an antique or vintage baker’s hutch with jams, jellies, pickled vegetables—colorful and practical impulse purchases. But that was down the road. She wouldn’t have time for that and neither would her sisters, but for today’s Jessica, the pond was empty, and though not clean, it no longer looked like something that would spawn a horror movie creature.

“I don’t even want to know what you found in there.” She shuddered.

He watched her for a moment that felt electric.

“What?”

“Yesterday you were in the pond nearly thigh-deep, skimming out years of debris,” he reminded her.

At least he hadn’t reminded her of her full-body dunk. “Skimming was not the word I’d use.” She crossed her arms and touched her still sore biceps. “What can I say? I like to get dirty.”

Her eyes widened in horror at the flip answer’s innuendo. “Physically.”

She nearly slapped a hand over her mouth. Chloe was the blurter of awkward truths that dug her in deeper. Jessica was the practiced flirt, but not with Storm. Not now.

“Not sure that made it better,” Storm noted.

“I made a sandwich, if you’re hungry. I can bring it out or you can come eat in the house, warm up, although you’re…” She waved her hand toward his damp T-shirt. He’d peeled off his flannel and fleece.

Great. I just practically shouted that I noticed his sweaty muscles.

Feeling uncomfortably exposed, she turned around and speed-walked to the house.

“There’s an outside sink to the right of the porch,” she called out. Nope. Definitely not mentioning there was an outside shower. She didn’t even want to think about Storm sluicing dirt off his taut, golden skin.

“Don’t think of his skin,” she muttered to herself.

She left one of the French doors to the house unlatched. It wasn’t too cold, and she felt heated up in a way that might not have as much to do with her exertion as she pretended. She picked up her plate and hesitated. Did she want to sit in the kitchen nook? At the island bar? On the porch? Would he join her? Which place would be less… She wasn’t even sure what she meant. She didn’t want to be inhospitable, but she needed to establish boundaries. She was his boss, not his date.

Then Storm arrived, bringing the scent of the spicy cinnamon soap instead of dirty pond water. He kicked off his boots and hung up his work jacket and fleece. His flannel was tied around his waist. His socks were hunter green. And why was she noticing his socks? Or his long, narrow feet.

“This is more than just a sandwich. Thanks, Jessica. This saves me driving into town to pick up something.”

Guilt prickled since she’d reluctantly offered to feed him. He too was building a business. Turning down work to help her. He’d moved home to be closer to the family he had left. They’d gone to school together. The whole way through. Feeding him was a no-brainer and she needed to stop making it weird.

She picked up her sandwich quarter and watched him swallow his own quarter in one bite. Maybe she should have made him two sandwiches. And she definitely shouldn’t have cut it like he was a kid. Bad habit as she liked to eat small bites—usually with her hands, something her mother deplored.

Storm popped a pickle slice in his mouth. “Whoa—these are incredible. He looked at the mason jar. Did you make these?”

“Grandma Millie’s recipe, but Meghan made them this past summer. Kinda her hobby.”

“You should sell them at the nursery. You’re going to sell vegetable starts, aren’t you, with all those greenhouses?”

“Ummmmmm.” She paused.

She wasn’t used to men talking so much. Rustin was curt. Always had been. Her father made pronouncements, jingled his keys and left the room. Her bosses and colleagues had maybe muttered hello to her cheery good morning greetings and many, when she’d asked about their weekends, had flashed blank stares and drawn out ‘ahhhhhhh…watched the game’ or ‘went with the wife and kids to…’ wherever families went on the weekends.

Storm was friendly. Cheerful. Full of ideas and problem-solving can dos. And usually that was her role.

“Yes I will sell starts at the beginning of each season.” She’d thought that far ahead, thank goodness. “And your idea about the pickles and jams is a good one, but not one I’d explored yet. I don’t have the time, and I doubt that Meghan who travels a lot for her job or Sarah who’s always picking up extra shifts at her clinic have the time or interest to do anything so…domestic.”

He downed another bite, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Funny, I would have pictured you married with two or three kids by now, taking over running the town for Grandma Millie.”

Jessica had thought the same thing. But…something had always held her back.

“Well, now I’m focused on Chloe’s party and the nursery and rehabbing the garden,” she said cheerfully. “What started this was botanicals—in mocktails and tea blends.”

He paused mid bite.

“Don’t choke. I do actually have ideas of my own.”

“Like that was ever in doubt.”

The bite was gone. Sheesh the poor man had been starving.

“I was at a new bar in Atlanta with some sorority sisters—a girls’ weekend catching up—and we went to a restaurant that had a revolving menu each month—food from around the world. The bar had all these mocktails that were internationally themed too, and the drinks were so delicious and healthy, and they had like twenty-five tea blends, and I started thinking about Grandma Millie’s farm, how it was so alone now with all of us grown and the caretaker aging out of the job and preparing to retire. My dad wants to develop it, but I have so many memories of my sisters and me playing, exploring, planting and harvesting, and I wanted…” She paused, embarrassed that she was confessing so much, and that he was listening to her with his whole body.

Weren’t women the listeners and men the doers? Storm certainly had done a lot just in the morning.

“I wanted the farm, the land to have someone love it again.”

Her eyes welled, and she pressed the knuckles of her index fingers against them lightly—one more advantage of not wearing makeup—no more worries about smears.

“I’ll think about the pickles and other items to sell—not just plants.”

She was more intrigued by the idea than she’d imagined but needed time to sort out how it would work. There was only one of her.

“I am going to serve my own branded tea blend, and sell loose leaf tea, along with tea plants. That’s first. Eventually I was hoping to make a couple of botanical blends that people could buy for cock or mocktails.”

Storm coughed and bent over, definitely trying to cover a laugh or a smile, and Jessica felt a bit more on even ground.

“Are you okay?”

“Peachy.” He took a deep drag on his sweet tea, and she watched his throat work and squirmed a little in her seat.

What was wrong with her? A man drinking tea at her table was not sexy. She tried to think back to her last date and came up empty. She’d been busy. Full of plans. And now Storm sat on the edge of his chair, leaning forward, poised like a hunting dog for the command to go retrieve the dead pheasant. She finally took a bite of her sandwich and chewed thoughtfully.

“Tell me more,” Storm encouraged. “We can make these working lunches.” He pulled out his computer and also a large drafting tablet. “I will better understand your now goals as well as future, and future-future, almost fantasy goals.” He popped the last piece of sandwich in his mouth and pulled out his tablet.

Jessica knew he was not flirting with her, but her mind got caught up in the word ‘fantasy.’ She was really going to need a leash for her libido. What was wrong with her? So many eligible men in Charlotte, but she’d been bored, bored, bored. Every man had seemed so caught up in selling themselves—what made them great, successful, interesting, a high-on-the-shelf reach for her. None had expressed much interest in her, and now Storm wanted to take notes.

It was heady and intimidating. She’d been in the dreamy stage of her business plan, but she was going to have to rocket her timeline.

“Do you want to start drafting out the areas for the party first?”

Jessica flinched. She knew she had to trust someone with the dreams she’d held so tightly in her fists for so many years, but protecting them from scorn and outright ‘never going to work,’ attitudes was a hard habit to break.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “And doing my own sketches—probably different from yours because I didn’t study this in college.”

“Jay, there’s not one way to process things. It’s called brainstorming, spitballing, processing, dreaming for a reason. Everyone does it differently.” He leaned into her space, his expression sincere. “This is your business. Your vision. I want to help. I want to be a part of it. I’ll have ideas, doesn’t mean they’re right, and by working together, collaborating, we can springboard somewhere that perhaps we never would have gotten to alone.”

It was hard to breathe, harder to believe.

She blew out a breath and edged her two untouched quarters of the sandwich onto his plate.

“I like order,” she admitted. “I don’t process quickly like you do. I mull.”

“News to no one,” Storm said, but his gold-brown eyes glinted with humor, not derision, and again she saw those two dimples. How had she forgotten about those? He’d always been playful until…

Don’t think about that. Don’t remember how hard you shut him down.

“Do you have a naggy voice in your head always critiquing your ideas?”

How the heck had she let that escape?

“Pretend I didn’t say that,” Jessica urged.

“It’s out there. Mrs. Bischell.”

“Huh?”

“English. Seventh grade. I just couldn’t get subjunctive clauses and pretty much everything else. I’d been skating by with reading and writing and middle school just…” Storm kicked out his legs, his stocking feet coming dangerously close to hers “…couldn’t keep up,” he admitted and placed the first quarter of her half of the sandwich she’d handed over after holding it up, eyebrows raised in an ‘are you sure’ look that shouldn’t be so politely charming.

“She really beat up my confidence. Detention. Failing grades. Conferences. Long letters home. I knew I was causing my grandparents more heartache. Lost a lot of lunches having to go to the office and work instead of eat. Extra work. Tutoring. Summer program. Nearly lost my place on every team when sports was my whole world.

“It was the first time something was hard. That I had to dig deep but still kept coming up empty.” He spread his hands out. “Shook me. I blamed her. I could hear her quiet disappointment in my head at the worst times. Took a student teacher in eighth grade who tried working with me before school using a new program she was studying and piloting. Leila Fulton. She had the sweetest smile and never once said anything nasty or missed one of our before school appointments, and she wasn’t even getting paid to help me. She said she wanted to help me find my learning style, and that by helping me, I’d be helping her so it was a win-win.”

He was quiet for a moment. And Jessica felt as if he’d cast a spell on her. His learning challenges might have been related to his parents’ death. His life had been totally upheaved, and Jessica wasn’t sure how she felt that Storm had shared something so personal.

“Leila being so generous with her time, sure I’d get it stuck.”

Jessica, though she wasn’t eating anything, felt like she had a lump in her throat. She’d always seen the world as win or lose. Probably why her father had inherited two failing mills and a changing industry economy and turned it around so he was now quite wealthy and had utterly transformed his company and economic bottom line.

“I always saw you as golden,” she mused. “Everyone did.”

“By high school my reading and comprehension issues had smoothed out. After getting essays back drenched in red and what I perceived as snark, my grades climbed back up. Sports was back on then I was…golden.”

That smile again. The one that creased his cheeks. He had been golden. And kind along with his superpower. But she felt she detected a hint of something behind his smile. So maybe he still had the scabs. Maybe they all did.

“How about you? Have you ever failed?”

“Failing is only getting knocked on the ground or the field, and not getting back up and into the game,” she said quickly, using an analogy he’d understand, and also to shut him up. No way could she share more, and she tried to push away the sense that she should. They weren’t dating; this wasn’t ‘show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ getting to know each other.

She stood up quickly, taking her plate and glass, and to her relief he followed suit.

“Thank you for lunch, Jessica.”

He helped her clean and load the dishwasher and then she snagged her Tupperware of sliced apples and carrots and a baggie of cookies.

“Snack for later after I start taking notes for a master plan.”

“Not going to say no to that,” Storm said. “I’ll show you the state of the pond and we can discuss where you want to go next.”

His use of the word ‘we’ tensed her right back up, but she forced her shoulders down.

Storm would be a big help. She hated to admit she needed him—well, maybe she didn’t need him, but she definitely could use the help. It was for Chloe and for her. She could hold her own with Storm.

He snagged a cookie from the plate, and she smiled. Men and their stomachs. He took another. “Dang these cookies are next level, Jay.” Storm munched. “Is this a secret recipe from your family’s recipe book? Rustin was all about it one night when I was working late finishing installing shelves, and he was reading over the book making notes.”

He turned back and looked at her. “Will I start making puppy dog eyes at you?”

Storm picked the book up from the counter near the stove.

“Don’t touch it.” She spoke more harshly than she meant to.

Storm looked alarmed and gently placed the book down.

“Sorry.” He looked at her like she was crazy, and she probably sounded like it. “Is it fragile? Rustin had it in the kitchen and was reading it like it was a sci-fi novel. He’s messed with some of the recipes on his menu in his roots section. He even said the book had a touch of magic.”

“He was joking,” Jessica said, sliding the book away from Storm as his fingers rested on the edge as if he would open it. “Rustin’s always had a weird sense of humor.”

“Rustin utterly lacks a sense of humor, but I think Chloe’s rubbing off on him—hopefully.”

“The cookies are my own recipe.” Jessica placed the book back in a drawer.

“Are there some simple recipes in there like a one-skillet or one-pot meal I could…”

“No,” she interrupted, cringing at the sound of the one syllable. She nervously licked her lips. “Not in there.” She hadn’t even allowed herself to look. “You can find a lot of healthy, practical and easy recipes online.”

“Can you recommend a good site?”

Jessica slipped her feet back in her boots and shrugged on her jacket while Storm followed suit. She was acting so defensive, she wanted to kick her own behind.

“I’ll collect a few tasty, nutritious meal ideas for you to share with your grandparents,” Jessica compromised.

“Any hope of one of Aunt Millie’s famous specials?” Storm teased and bumped against her, almost like they were friends, and for a moment she allowed her guard to slip.

“Maybe,” she said. “But you’d have to take a vow of silence.”

Storm drew his finger across his lips, and Jessica wished she didn’t have the urge to laugh. Maybe even be daring and kiss him. But definitely no to any of that. She was his client, nothing more.