All They Need

“Sorry. It’s just not what I expected.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Let me guess. You had me pegged for a polo player, right? Maybe a yachtsman?” He spoke with an exaggerated British accent.

She smiled before she could catch herself. “Something like that.”

“My mother is a keen gardener. She recruited me as her slave when I was a kid, and I’ve been getting my hands dirty ever since.”

Mel dropped to her knees and pulled her penknife from her pocket, making short work of the knots he’d been tugging at without much success. He gave her a wry look and she shrugged apologetically.

He turned to inspect the hole she’d dug before glancing at her in an assessing way. “Would it offend you if I offered some advice?”

“I guess it depends on what it is.”

“The hole isn’t big enough. You want the soil around the roots to be a little loose and aerated, so the tree can grow new feeder roots easily.”

“You’re lucky I don’t slap your face,” she said, deadpan.

She immediately felt a dart of alarm. She’d always been a bit of a smart-ass—impossible not to be growing up with a father and a brother who took no prisoners when it came to teasing and pranks—but her quick tongue had consistently gotten her in trouble with her ex. Owen had hated it when she said something provocative or racy or pithy. He’d wanted her to be discreet and elegant and sophisticated, not mouthy and cheeky.

She waited for Flynn to signal that she’d overstepped the mark with her off-the-cuff response. Waited for the friendly smile to fall from his lips or for his blue eyes to turn cold. But he simply smiled at her appreciatively before pushing himself to his feet.

“I was wondering where your sense of humor had gotten to.”

She stared at him as he pulled the shovel from the mound of dirt. “Excuse me?”

“Your sense of humor. You always used to make me laugh.”

Her lips twisted. She knew what this was about. “You mean because I jumped in the fountain at the Hollands’ party?”

Flynn had started to dig, widening and deepening the hole, but he stopped to consider her. Almost as though he understood exactly how brightly that incident burned in her memory.

“I was under the impression that you fell in. And I didn’t think it was particularly funny until you took your bow. Hamish Greggs was an idiot for letting go of you. I hope he groveled at your feet the next day.”

She smiled grimly. “The Hollands ‘forgot’ to invite us to their black-and-white ball. I guess they were afraid I’d take a dive into their koi pond.”

“You’re kidding?” Flynn looked incredulous. Then he frowned. “I knew there was a reason I never liked them.”

For a moment she thought she’d misheard him, but the disgusted expression on his face was undeniable.

He didn’t blame her for the incident. He didn’t think she was vulgar or stupid or attention-seeking or clueless because she’d set out to help a woman in distress and wound up in the fountain. He didn’t think she’d gone out of her way to cause trouble. He was sympathetic. Maybe even supportive.

The shovel hit a rock, the metal ringing loudly, and she realized she was simply watching while her guest sweated over a hole in the ground. She shook her head, wishing she could shake off the past as easily.

“Here. I should be doing that,” she said, striding forward.

“If it gets to be too much for me I promise to send up a flare.”

“You’re my guest.” She reached out to grab the shovel from him.

“What are you going to do? Wrestle me for the shovel?” he asked.

“I was hoping you’d realize I was right.”

“Would it help at all if I told you that I’m enjoying myself? That I’ve had a really shitty couple of weeks and that digging a nice big hole and getting some dirt under my nails is exactly what the doctor ordered?” His tone was light but there was something in his eyes that told her he wasn’t joking.

She let her hand fall to her side and retreated from the hole. “Okay. If you insist.”

He set to it again, his biceps flexing powerfully as he drove the shovel into the earth. Mel watched him, twitchy and uncomfortable with being forced into the role of spectator.

“You’re about to break out in hives, aren’t you?” he asked after a couple of minutes.

“I’m used to doing things for myself.”

He drove the shovel into the ground and left it there. “Then you’ll be pleased to know I’m done.”

Mel bit her lip and looked at him, aware that there was a very real chance that she was coming across as a surly ingrate. “I do appreciate the help. You’ve been incredibly generous…?.”

He waved a hand, effectively dismissing her words. “Let’s get this baby in the ground where she belongs.”

She didn’t even bother arguing with him this time. Between the two of them they lifted the tree upright so it sat on its root ball. She squatted to get a grip on the roots, digging her gloved fingers into the dirt and clay, while Flynn did the same on the other side of the tree.

“Okay. One, two, three,” she said.

They both lifted and shuffled toward the hole at the same time.

“Slowly,” Flynn said as the tree started to slide into the hole.

Mel shifted her grip to the trunk to try to control its descent, earning a face full of leaves for her efforts. She felt rather than saw the tree hit bottom and sat back on her heels with a relieved sigh. Flynn did the same on his side of the hole. After a beat he leaned to one side so he could make eye contact with her around the foliage.

“Thanks for letting me help.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “Thanks for insisting.”

He pushed himself to his feet and then they filled in the hole and watered the tree into its new site.

“There. Done,” Flynn finally said, thrusting the shovel into the earth one last time.

Mel pushed a stray curl out of her eyes and considered her orange tree. In its new position, it would get close to eight hours of clear sunlight a day. With a bit of luck, she might even get fruit this summer.

Reaching out a hand, she patted the trunk affectionately. “Over to you. Show us what you’ve got, baby,” she said quietly.

Then she remembered she had an audience. When she glanced at Flynn, he was trying to hide a smile.

“Okay. So I talk to my plants occasionally,” she admitted sheepishly.

“I read my tomatoes Shakespeare one year.”

“Yeah, right.” She squinted at him, sure he was making fun of her.