Page 29

WILLOW

T he shuttle drops us off at the entrance to the farm and I immediately regret every choice that led me to this point in my life. Because why are we doing this so early in the morning?

Professor Wallace claps her hands and launches into a speech about the farm’s mission, using words like “community engagement” and “global citizenship” while the rest of us silently bargain with the universe for cloud cover.

Blaise stands two people to my left, perfectly stone-faced.

He keeps his arms crossed and his eyes forward, like there’s nothing else going on besides Professor Wallace talking.

If I weren’t so busy mentally trying to figure out if there’s a way I can convince our shuttle bus driver to take me back to the hotel, I might actually appreciate the view.

Instead, I focus on the way the sweat is already darkening his collar, which is both a comfort and a distraction.

“Willow! You’re with Blaise and David in the herb garden,” Professor Wallace announces, as if I didn’t hear her make the announcement when we were back at the hotel.

My eyes land on David because there’s no way I can look at Blaise. It’s very obvious that he was class president in high school and thinks that translates to real-world charisma. He’s got sandy hair, the kind of blue eyes you get called dreamy for, and a nice smile. I already hate him.

“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 tempted to 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 what needs 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.

"I've got this neat little hack," David says. "My grandfather taught me when we worked his garden back home."

I try to pull away, but he's already flipping the glove inside out at the wrist. "Really, I’m good. I can figure it out?—"

"Just one second," he insists, folding the excess material back on itself and creating a sort of cuff. His thumb strokes across my palm as he works. "There. Perfect fit now."

I resist the urge to gag. "Thanks," I say flatly, pulling my hand away.

"My pleasure." David's smile widens. "You know, I've always had a thing for girls who aren't afraid to get their hands dirty."

"Is that right?" I turn back to my weeding, hoping he'll take the hint.

He doesn't. Instead, he crouches beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. "Absolutely. Shows character. Plus, you look cute when you're concentrating."

I'm about to tell him exactly where he can shove his observations when I hear Blaise clear his throat behind us. "She said she's good.”

David glances up at Blaise, but his smile stays planted on his face. "Just helping her out, man."

We’re outside, but the tension between us is now as thick as a heavy smoke. I can probably cut it with a pair of gardening shears. I look between them, confused by Blaise's tone and whatever else is going on here.

"I think the oregano needs your attention more than Willow's gloves do," Blaise says slowly as if he’s making sure David understands every word.

David raises his hands as if he’s surrendering, that infuriating grin still in place. "No problem. Just being friendly." He winks at me before returning to his section of the garden.

I stare at Blaise, who's already turning back to his basil plants. What the hell was that about? Since when does he care who flirts with me? Is he jealous?

The thought spins through my mind and I’m stuck wondering if this could mean…no, that can't be it. I watch him with disbelief, trying to reconcile his silence with his protectiveness. Seriously, what the fuck was that?

I know I should be annoyed, but instead, I'm something else.

Something that feels like…hopeful and I hate that.

Something I don't want to admit. I want to understand what he's doing, why he's doing it, anything that explains what just happened.

Instead, I turn it over in my head again and again.

Maybe I should chalk this situation up to being a glitch in the matrix or something.

"I can handle myself, you know," I say quietly, not wanting David to overhear.

Blaise doesn't look up. "Never said you couldn't."

"Then what was that?"

"Nothing," he says as he keeps his eyes fixed on the basil. "Just seemed like you weren't interested in his help. Nor did you want him touching you."

I'm suddenly at a loss for words. How did he—? Since when does he—? My mind races with questions I can't form, let alone ask. "Thanks," I finally say, my voice smaller than I intended. "I guess."

Blaise just nods once and while I’m pulling weeds, all I can think about now is that I have more questions than answers. As a journalist, none of that sits right with me.

And I’m determined to find out.