In The Weeds, page 22
How long is she staying? What will happen when she goes?
How far gone am I and do I even care?
It would all disappear with my mouth on hers.
Half of me expects her to push the conversation, demand that we talk through everything we cracked wide open last night. But she keeps her eyes on me, gaze warm and honest and kind. There’s a faded line pressed from the corner of her eye to the curve of her jaw, a crease from my pillow imprinted against her cheek.
I want her like this every single morning.
“You left your phone on the counter,” she tells me, uncrossing her arms and edging further in the room. “Mabel called and said you’re late.”
I groan. I forgot I volunteered to help her today. Spring wedding season is chaotic at the greenery, and she’s too short to do the arches by herself. I glance down the long line of Evie’s body propped up against the dresser and groan again.
I had plans this morning. Pancakes and syrup with the doors to the porch thrown open wide. The sun on her skin and the tempting line of her throat. I rub at my chest and ignore the low flare of disappointment.
She grins and turns, bending at the waist for the third drawer down. I make a helpless sound as the swell of her hips and the curve of her ass are put on display and she gives me a little shimmy, legs rocking back and forth.
“I’ll go with you,” she tells me over her shoulder, pulling out a pair of jeans and tossing them in my direction. “I’ve got to drop off website stuff for her anyway.”
“You’re still doing that stuff around town?” Social media, a majority of it. But helping Alex stock books on the back shelves, too. Taking a turn on the cash register at the hardware store. Christopher had been beside himself, telling anyone who would listen about the celebrity who wanted to work at his store.
She’s been sharing her sunshine with anyone who needs some light, even as she struggles herself. She’s open and warm and kind and it’s so easy to picture her here. To want her to stay.
She hums in affirmation, a balled up pair of socks soaring through the air and narrowly missing my head. I reach back and grab them off the bed.
She rockets back up on her feet and sets her hands on her hips. Bossy, in every line of her body. Gorgeous, too. “But if we’re skipping breakfast here, I’m gonna want bacon on the way.”
I ease and settle. We’ll figure everything out in time, for better or worse. Worrying about it isn’t going to get me anywhere.
“We can do that.”
The back parking lot of the greenery is full when we arrive, a spike of anxiety making me fidget in my seat. This is not how I wanted to spend my morning with Evelyn. In fact, this is not how I want to spend any morning—ever. I want to go back in time and punch myself in the face for volunteering.
I can feel Evie’s eyes on me, watching me carefully as I maneuver the truck into one of the back alleyways. I reluctantly put it into park and she slips a piece of bacon out of the styrofoam container on her lap, offering me half.
“They like seeing you, you know.”
I bite into the bacon, keeping my gaze firmly locked on the large floral wreath over the door. It usually takes me between five and seven minutes to convince myself to get out of the car. “Who does?”
“Everyone. The town.”
I grunt.
“I just—” I turn to look at her, the bright morning light making her skin glow. She has pink on her neck from where my stubble brushed against her, the edge of a hickey peeking out from beneath her shirt. I give into temptation and reach over, thumbing once at the mark before pulling her collar over it. She turns her head and brushes a kiss against the constellation on the back of my hand. Argo Navis. The mighty ship.
“I don’t want you to be lonely,” she confesses. “Sitting by yourself in that big house. I hate thinking of you lonely.”
She means when she leaves. I slip my hand out of her grip and rub my palm against my thigh. She’s busy planning for her exit while I’m still out in the fields with her, my hands on her bare skin and my heart in my throat.
Disappointment punches me in the gut, a cheap shot that steals the air out of my lungs. All morning I’ve been trying to think of the right words to tell her I want her around and she’s thinking about where she’ll go next. I let out a slow breath and reach for the handle of the door.
“Alright,” I scratch at my nose and push everything back into place. Shoulders back, chin up, crumbling walls held up by toothpicks. “Let’s go in then.”
She stops me with her hand on my wrist, the styrofoam boxes placed neatly in the backseat. Her thumb rubs once against my skin and she smiles gently at me. There’s a secret there, in the set of her mouth. Comfort and a little bit of coercion, too. All the best things about Evie.
She rummages around in her bag and emerges with her hand wrapped tight around something, shuffling up on her knees to lean over the center console. She cups my jaw in one hand and reaches for my temple with the other, a small foam earplug held carefully between thumb and forefinger. She gently fits it into place against my ear, thumb smoothing along my jaw as the sound muffles around me. It’s like slipping underwater in the bath, warm water rushing over head.
She guides my head to the left and fits the other into place. She holds my face when she’s done, thumbs brushing under my eyes. She leans forward and drags a gentle kiss across my mouth. Let me take care of you, her kiss says.
I want her to. More than anything, I want her to.
“For the sound,” she explains, her voice muffled but still there. “To make it easier.”
I swallow around the words that burn unfamiliar in the back of my throat and settle for squeezing her hand in mine. But I wonder if she knows. If she can read it on my face.
I didn’t realize falling in love could be so simple. Bacon in a takeout container and earplugs in the bottom of a handbag.
I make a decision sitting in the front seat of my truck, my thumb across her knuckles. I don’t know what we’re doing, how long it’ll last, when she’ll leave again. But I’ll take all her pieces while I have her.
I’ll take whatever she can give me, for as long as she can.
The earplugs help, but Evelyn helps more.
She keeps her touches light and reassuring against the back of my arm as we twist flowers and vines around the sturdy legs of an arch. Half of the entire town is crammed into Mabel’s greenhouse space, bundles of fresh flowers and rolls of chicken wire and dense green foam on every flat surface. Loud conversation and bodies brushing close. I’ve seen glimpses of Mabel, hurrying between stations, a flurry of activity as she arranges and rearranges and sends people out the door.
“These are beautiful,” Evelyn fluffs some baby’s breath near the top of the arch and drags a fingertip over the petal of a pale pink peony, the bloom still clustered tight. Standing on the step stool, her ass is right above my face. I could bite at the top of her thigh if I wanted to. She turns and looks down at me, a sly smile curving her lips up. I don’t bother looking away from her ass.
I reach out a hand and help her down. “They are.”
Mabel is incredible at what she does. Her floral business has been slowly expanding over the past couple of years and this might be her biggest wedding yet. I look at all the arrangements spread out over the greenhouse, Gus standing by the door with what looks like five bouquets balanced in his massive hands, a patient look on his kind face as Mabel talks animatedly in front of him. He nods and jerks his head out front to where the ambulance is waiting, back doors propped open.
“I think Gus is trying to drop off flowers at a wedding in an ambulance.”
Evelyn hops off the last step of the stool but doesn’t drop my hand. I squeeze her fingers with mine, a tiny, white bloom stuck to her pinky.
“He might need the ambulance in a second.”
I laugh and Evelyn glances up at me, a wide smile on her pretty face. I forget that we’re in the middle of town in a crowded greenhouse. I forget that Cindy Croswell is standing three feet behind us, sneaking a peek through a bundle of eucalyptus.
All I know is that I want to kiss Evelyn while she has jasmine caught in her hair and I’ve got this feeling in my chest. Like someone kicked me out of an airplane. Total free fall. No parachute.
So I do.
I cup my hand around the back of her neck and tug her into me, a soft oh pressed against my mouth and her hands flat against my chest. I keep it chaste and easy, a gentle brush back and forth. A quick nip at her bottom lip. Her hands curl into fists as she sways into me, a light admonishment with the rap of her knuckles against my collarbone.
“Everyone can see,” she whispers against my mouth, not moving an inch. The sound is muted by the foam in my ears, but I can hear her all the same. I can also hear Cindy Croswell drop everything she’s holding right behind us and go rushing towards the supply closet where Becky Gardener disappeared ten minutes ago.
I bump my nose against hers. “I don’t care.”
Her smile widens into a grin, her brown eyes shining. This close, I can see flecks of gold in them. She thumbs at my jaw. “Those earplugs made you bold, farmer boy.”
I shrug and lean back, carding my hand through the length of her hair. For once, I don’t mind the attention. I’m not going to lose a moment with Evelyn just because someone might be watching. Though there is a lot of whispering going on all of a sudden, furtive glances in between ceramic vases and rose gold twinkle lights.
“Ah,” I see her point now. Gus and Mabel have abandoned their argument on the sidewalk and are standing with their faces pressed against the window. I wince. Everything in the greenhouse has come to a comical standstill. The whispers start like a hornet’s nest a second later. “Alright, well. Can’t take it back now.”
“Do you want to?” I look back down at her, the way her smile is slipping from her lips. “Take it back?”
I shake my head. I really don’t. I want everyone in this nosy-ass town to know. I’m half-tempted to dig my cell out of my back pocket and ring up the phone tree.
Relieved, Evie takes my hand and squeezes. “Good. Because I think we just went the Inglewild version of viral.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EVELYN
My brand new phone rings on the arm of the chair as I sit on the back porch of Beckett’s cabin, a mug of tea in my hands and my feet propped up on the railing. It’s an unfamiliar number, but I recognize the area code.
I tap answer as I watch Beckett cross back and forth through the thick glass windows of his little greenhouse, bending at the waist with a watering can held loosely in his fist. I don’t know how anyone got this number. I asked Josie for a new one when she ordered me a replacement phone.
“Hello?”
“Inglewild phone tree calling,” a vaguely familiar voice chirps out on the other end of the phone. “Beckett and Evelyn were seen making out in the corner of Mabel’s today. Pretty sure he would have thrown her to the ground if no one had been around.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and glance at the screen. That is a—creative interpretation of the sweet but lingering kiss Beckett gave me beneath the flower arch.
“Kelly? Is that you?”
I’m pretty sure Kelly wasn’t even in the greenhouse earlier today. There’s a pause and then her loud and boisterous laugh dances over the line. I can always tell when the salon door is open when I’m walking through town. I can hear Kelly’s laugh from a mile away.
“Oh, goodness. What are the odds?” Her laughter tapers off. “I guess you’re officially a local now … if you’ve been added to the phone tree.”
“I guess so.” The thought makes me grin. I still have questions about how they got this number, though. My dad doesn’t even have it yet. “We weren’t making out.”
“Oh, honey. That’s a shame.” She tuts once. “You should always be making out with that man.”
I hang up the phone and kick my legs as I stare out at the rolling hills. I let myself imagine what this would be like. Mornings spent in town and afternoons on the farm, brilliant color spilling out behind the house as the flowers begin to bloom. Calls from the phone tree and cookies from Ms. Beatrice in the dead of night. Beckett’s mouth against mine.
I still haven’t gotten that itch to move. The pulse that beats in my chest to go somewhere new—chase, discover, find—it’s fainter now. Quiet. I don’t think it’s gone. It’s just … satisfied, I think.
I glance at my phone and instead of feeling a swell of anxiety rising like a tide, I just feel … nothing. I didn’t bother reconnecting any of my social accounts when I set up this new phone. Didn’t connect my email either.
I’m starting to let some things go.
I watch Beckett cross behind the windows again—one thing I don’t want to let go of.
With Beckett, I’m trying to figure out too much on my own when there’s another half to the equation currently hiding in the greenhouse, tending to his plants. Does he even want me to stay? I stand from my seat and step down the back porch, following the path laid by oversized, flat stones. Comet and Vixen rush ahead of me, hopping from rock to rock to slip through the crack in the door.
Beckett’s back is to me, his t-shirt stretched over his shoulders as he works at the table pressed against the length of the back wall. Almost all of the floor space is occupied by various pots and planters, a long shelf against each floor-to-ceiling window crowded with orchids and petunias and bright red poinsettias, their silky petals open to the setting sun. I duck my nose into a cluster of pink I don’t recognize, its scent like the first bite of a crisp apple. Tangy and sharp.
I lean back and find Beckett watching me.
“Phone tree called,” I tell him. “We’re official.”
I regret my choice of words almost immediately. The only thing official about what we’re doing is officially avoiding the conversation. Officially stupid about it. I roll my eyes up to the glass panels of the ceiling and back down again. “You know what I mean.”
He wipes his hands on a towel, his movements practiced and smooth. “We’re officially on everyone’s creep radar?” He tosses the towel to the side. “We’re officially going to have to start checking the front bushes for neighbors?”
I like that word so much. We.
“I don’t think you’ll find Luka and Stella hiding in your bushes,” I say as I lean my hip against the table he’s been working at. Three small pots and a packet of seeds. A bright blue watering can and some pruning shears. I tilt my head and glance at his neat handwriting at the bottom lip of terracotta. Lavender.
“Are we going to talk about what’s going on, or are you going to silently poke around my greenhouse until I lose my mind?”
I blink up at him and feel a smile tug at my mouth. I bite down on the inside of my cheek in a show of restraint. “The second option sounds nice, thank you.”
He shakes his head and rubs his knuckles against his neck, exasperated. This poor man. I’ve really put him through the ringer this week. The pond, a kiss … sex in a field. I’d feel bad if I didn’t know for a fact he loves it. He loves the challenge, the fight, the big tease of it all. He drops his hands and reaches under the table, flicking some hidden switch. A low string of lights twined around the ceiling panels blinks to life and the whole space glows with a warm, hazy light. I catch a reflection of us in the glass to my right, night creeping across the fields outside and cloaking everything in shadow.
I’m captivated by the look of us reflected back in a wavy distortion. Me standing in front of Beckett, his body strong where he’s propped up against the table. His tattooed arms spread wide. My ponytail curled over my shoulder.
“There are other options to explore, I think.” He steps forward and cages me against the table at my back, his hands finding my hips and lifting me carefully on top. He drags my legs wide and pats once at the outside of my thighs, stepping between them. All of his movements are so easy, so effortless. Like he’s been out here planning exactly what he wants to do with me.
“So far, so good,” I say.
A smile flirts with the corners of his mouth. He settles the palm of his hand against my neck and traces below my ear. “I like you, Evie,” he breathes, and the humid air in the greenhouse turns thicker, warmer. His gaze softens on mine and everything in his eyes looks a lot more than like. My heart pounds in my chest and I know whatever he feels, I feel it, too. “I like you a lot. I want to see where this goes.”
“See where this goes,” I repeat back to him slowly, focused on the fingers of his other hand toying with the hem of my dress. He could be reciting the Star-Spangled Banner and I’d probably still have the same stupefied look on my face. He strokes my legs again, thumb curling under the edge of my skirt. I put on a dress before we left the house this morning. I liked the way Beckett swallowed hard when I walked into the kitchen, how his eyes lingered on where the hem brushed my thighs.
He gathers the fabric in his fist and rolls the material up once. I shiver.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Does that work for you?”
“It’s a good start.” I want more from him than that. See where this goes sounds a little ambivalent for the big feelings bursting the seams of my chest, but it’ll do for now. He flips the skirt of my dress up again, another inch of skin visible. “I like you too, for the record.”
I more than like him.
“I’m glad we talked about this,” he tells the tops of my knees, a heavy swallow in the strong column of his throat. He leans forward and nudges under my jaw. I obediently lift my chin and he presses a soft kiss right over my pulse point. He likes that small concession, a rough breath exhaled over my skin, fingers dragging along the outside of my thighs. I stop his hands at the place where my underwear rises over my hips, my hands curling around his wrists.
“I’m going to want to talk about this more.”
“Alright.”
“Lots of conversations.”
His hands flex at my waist, fingers slipping under the band of my underwear. He twists the material and tugs. “As many as you want, honey.”
