I'm Sure by Beverly Breton

 
    Chapter One
    Megan
    “Are you Megan?”
    The sun is warm on my back as I crouch at the edge of a water pond at the plant nursery where I work. February in southern California is temperate enough for shorts, and the air feels refreshing on my legs. But up top, in my denim shirt and industrial rubber gloves, with the temperature rising, I’m working up a sweat. The guys in the yard call me Ariel because of my long, wavy, copper-colored hair, which is tied back, but it never stays in place, and strands are sticking to my forehead.
    The net result—although it’s only mid-morning, I must look like I’ve been in the rain forest for a week.
    I slip off my mucky wet gloves, push back a corkscrew curl, and stand to face the customer calling me.
    Holey moley . My head literally falls backward to take him in. He’s got hickory brown hair long enough to muss, and cheekbones that could cut granite. He’s half a foot taller than me, and I’m five feet seven inches, plus I’m guessing he’s in his late twenties, like me. He’s wearing a navy blue T-shirt that stretches across his chest, showcasing arms to dream about, with dark blue work pants and broken-in black work boots.
    I ease down my chin.
    “I’ve got trouble with my plumbing,” he announces.
    We plant-people have an earthy sense of humor, pun intended. I can laugh at the yard guys’ off-color remarks, but we’ve worked together for years. I don’t expect a customer to take such liberties. I notice him checking the name sewn on my shirt as I formulate a reply.
    “Sorry, Megan.” He runs a hand through his hair, tousling it. “That didn’t sound right.”
    My name has never sounded better than it just did rolling off his tongue. An unexpected jitter flips through me.
    His forehead furrows. “I know better than to make pronouncements about…plumbing.”
    I’m about to answer, but the way he looks at me, with those long-lashed dark blue eyes, empties my brain. I can feel the standard furrow of concentration forming between my brows. For a moment, we’re in a frown off.
    He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m a fireman, and I’ve fielded more remarks about big—” His eyes widen.
    He’s backed himself into a corner. Again . I can’t help it. I guffaw. And a word finally emerges from my mouth. “Hoses?” I’m rewarded with a devastating grin. His teeth are perfectly white, but they’re not perfect, and that makes him all the more attractive.
    “Thank you. Yes.” He looks over at the fountain spraying from the center of a nearby pond and gestures. “My aunt’s pond fountain isn’t working, and I’m hoping to fix it. The woman inside, with the flowers, told me you could help?”
    I stifle a snort. I’m sure she did. That would be our nursery florist, my friend Sara—soon to be Sara Thomson-Blankenship—a person on a crusade to find everyone else partners and pending wedded bliss. No doubt she fell all over herself sending this guy out here. “Do you know what you need?”
    “I need a replacement—”
    Alarm flashes through his eyes.
    Then his mouth curls up on one corner and pulling his hand from his pocket, he reveals a section of black hose. “This.”
    “Okay.” I take the hose from his hand.
    “Please tell me you know the diameter so we don’t have to discuss…”
    Measuring my hose. How could I not finish it in my own mind? I suppress another chuckle. “I know the diameter,” I say, but I can’t help adding, “but how much, er, length?” I press together my lips, but I know the mirth spills into my gaze.
    “Really?” His eyebrow quirks.
    He’s not only incredibly handsome, he’s adorable.
    He huffs out a breath. “Six feet.”
    “I can do that.” I realize what I just said, and heat rises in my face. Enough of this . I’m worse than the yard guys. I bob my head and turn away. “I have to get it in the shed.” In the cool shade inside, I get back on task. Selecting a roll of black tubing, I measure six feet,