boyfriend way too much power for way too long.” She tilts her head, narrowing her gaze. “Not all men are liars.”
I know not all men are liars. And cheaters. And frauds. Like the last guy I went out with, for three entire years, only to discover he’d had additional girlfriends for at least two of those years, and he used the oldest excuse in the book. Those late nights he told me he was at work, he was hard at work for sure—just not at his job. Mostly, I keep the book shut tight on this chapter of my life.
And anyhow, Jason’s smoking good looks weren’t his most attractive feature. I would have noticed Jason if he’d been asking me from inside a hazmat suit about buying an iris for his grieving aunt.
I would have noticed his heart.
I shove a potted shrub someone left in the walkway back in place with my foot. “But my fraud radar sucks,” I remind Sara. “Not to be trusted. We know this for a fact.”
Sara brushes aside her Cleopatra bangs, her engagement ring sparkling in the sunlight. “That was then. This is now.” She caresses a stray wisp back off my forehead until she reaches my ponytail, and then she tugs.
The pull doesn’t hurt, but her concern does and creates a pang in my chest.
“Come on, sweetie. Let someone treat you nice. Dress up pretty, if just for an evening.”
Sara can’t fathom wearing a uniform of khaki shorts, denim shirts, boots, and mud every day like I do. I don’t mind. The outfit is efficient for what I do, and designing and creating water gardens never ceases to fill me with wonder.
But I’d be lying if I claimed I hadn’t wished, more than once in the past year, that I had an occasional reason to ditch the work clothes, dress up, brush out my hair, and have a man give me the kind of attention he gives to a woman he cares about.
“Would just one date kill you?
The original topic of this conversation, Jason, fills my senses in 3-D. Myrtle-scented Jason. One date, with him? Only one, and then no more? Yea, that could do me in. I yank on the hose, taking a few steps away to search for what it’s snagged on.
“Sara!” One of the high school cashiers is leaning out the door of the nursery building. “Customer in floral.”
“Got it!” Sara calls back. “Think about it,” she intones.
Again, I yank at the stubborn hose, harder this time. I follow the length, my own boots as heavy as if they’re filled with water now, too. Darn Sara.
But it’s not Sara who’s stirred up old wounds, and I know it. Jason is the trigger.
Chapter Two
Jason
I lean over the basil plant Tony grows on the hallway windowsill at our firehouse and inhale. My Aunt Dee always has a large pot of basil growing to add to her home-made tomato sauce. To me, basil smells like home.
Does Megan grow basil on her windowsill?
Imaginings about Megan have been bombarding me for three days since I fixed Aunt Dee’s pond. Megan, so seriously listening to me struggle to explain my problem without landing the double entendre my buddies here at the station house are so fond of, then laughing and announcing the word herself.
I can’t help my grin. Maybe I didn’t realize this before, but I do now. I’m drawn to serious with the ability to laugh.
“Two points!” The shout comes from the rec room.
I poke in my head. Three of my colleagues are engrossed in a basketball video game. We tend to stay away from virtual annihilation and destruction as entertainment, opting for sports or Jeopardy instead. I’m reigning Jeopardy champ.
“Answer that if you can, LeBron!”
This current basketball game is a no contest; I know who will win. I head down the hall to our family-style kitchen.
Firehouses often have one or two guys who like to cook, and Tony Marino is ours. He’s here, with his striped dish towel slung over his shoulder. I’m adequate in the kitchen—I’m Italian, too—but Tony’s a magician, sautéing chicken cutlets or conjuring a salad dressing. The mouth-watering scent of
I know not all men are liars. And cheaters. And frauds. Like the last guy I went out with, for three entire years, only to discover he’d had additional girlfriends for at least two of those years, and he used the oldest excuse in the book. Those late nights he told me he was at work, he was hard at work for sure—just not at his job. Mostly, I keep the book shut tight on this chapter of my life.
And anyhow, Jason’s smoking good looks weren’t his most attractive feature. I would have noticed Jason if he’d been asking me from inside a hazmat suit about buying an iris for his grieving aunt.
I would have noticed his heart.
I shove a potted shrub someone left in the walkway back in place with my foot. “But my fraud radar sucks,” I remind Sara. “Not to be trusted. We know this for a fact.”
Sara brushes aside her Cleopatra bangs, her engagement ring sparkling in the sunlight. “That was then. This is now.” She caresses a stray wisp back off my forehead until she reaches my ponytail, and then she tugs.
The pull doesn’t hurt, but her concern does and creates a pang in my chest.
“Come on, sweetie. Let someone treat you nice. Dress up pretty, if just for an evening.”
Sara can’t fathom wearing a uniform of khaki shorts, denim shirts, boots, and mud every day like I do. I don’t mind. The outfit is efficient for what I do, and designing and creating water gardens never ceases to fill me with wonder.
But I’d be lying if I claimed I hadn’t wished, more than once in the past year, that I had an occasional reason to ditch the work clothes, dress up, brush out my hair, and have a man give me the kind of attention he gives to a woman he cares about.
“Would just one date kill you?
The original topic of this conversation, Jason, fills my senses in 3-D. Myrtle-scented Jason. One date, with him? Only one, and then no more? Yea, that could do me in. I yank on the hose, taking a few steps away to search for what it’s snagged on.
“Sara!” One of the high school cashiers is leaning out the door of the nursery building. “Customer in floral.”
“Got it!” Sara calls back. “Think about it,” she intones.
Again, I yank at the stubborn hose, harder this time. I follow the length, my own boots as heavy as if they’re filled with water now, too. Darn Sara.
But it’s not Sara who’s stirred up old wounds, and I know it. Jason is the trigger.
Chapter Two
Jason
I lean over the basil plant Tony grows on the hallway windowsill at our firehouse and inhale. My Aunt Dee always has a large pot of basil growing to add to her home-made tomato sauce. To me, basil smells like home.
Does Megan grow basil on her windowsill?
Imaginings about Megan have been bombarding me for three days since I fixed Aunt Dee’s pond. Megan, so seriously listening to me struggle to explain my problem without landing the double entendre my buddies here at the station house are so fond of, then laughing and announcing the word herself.
I can’t help my grin. Maybe I didn’t realize this before, but I do now. I’m drawn to serious with the ability to laugh.
“Two points!” The shout comes from the rec room.
I poke in my head. Three of my colleagues are engrossed in a basketball video game. We tend to stay away from virtual annihilation and destruction as entertainment, opting for sports or Jeopardy instead. I’m reigning Jeopardy champ.
“Answer that if you can, LeBron!”
This current basketball game is a no contest; I know who will win. I head down the hall to our family-style kitchen.
Firehouses often have one or two guys who like to cook, and Tony Marino is ours. He’s here, with his striped dish towel slung over his shoulder. I’m adequate in the kitchen—I’m Italian, too—but Tony’s a magician, sautéing chicken cutlets or conjuring a salad dressing. The mouth-watering scent of
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