Tongue Tied (Practice Makes Perfect Book 2), page 1
Cassie Mint
Tongue Tied
First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2024
Copyright © 2024 by Cassie Mint
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-915735-51-5
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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Contents
1. Eden
2. Eden
3. Kai
4. Eden
5. Kai
6. Eden
7. Kai
8. Eden
9. Kai
Teaser: Under Study
About the Author
One
Eden
One month ago
The walk to the greenhouse is cold. All across campus, the wind howls and rattles the college windows. It’s that time of year when winter grapples with spring, and either season could come up victorious for the next week: choppy steel-gray waves headbutt the shore in the distance, while new blossom buds cling to tree branches, shivering too hard to open yet.
The sunshine is pale and watery. Bundled up in all my winter layers, my breath mists against my scarf where it pillows my chin, and my fingers are toasty-warm inside gloves. My boots thud across campus, along the coast path, and up the stone steps to where the greenhouse glass dome perches on the cliff side.
By halfway up the stone steps, I’m sweating, tugging my scarf loose and carrying it instead. When I reach the top, the wind blows clean through my clothes and I’m frozen again, my sweat chilled against my skin.
Shading my eyes against the bright sunshine, I turn in a slow circle, taking in the view. Long grass ripples across the clifftop, combed by the wind, while out at sea the waves foam at the mouth. Sunlight glints on the water, and seabirds screech as they play on air currents high above, while the town of Kephart spreads down below, spooning the college campus.
It’s all so small down there—like a model town. I moved here from my identi-kit suburb two years ago, and every day this small town makes my heart thump faster.
But no sight hitches my breath like the Kephart greenhouse. Looming above the town on the clifftop, its glass walls sparkle in the sunshine, and there’s a whole miniature rainforest shadowed inside.
I’m early. Of course I am. Two whole years, I’ve waited for my placement in this greenhouse, and today is my first day. As a Botany major… this is it. The promised land.
Tugging my gloves off with my teeth, I stuff them in my jacket pockets as I wander to the entrance. The heavy glass door is closed, but when I tug on the handle it swings open with a sigh of hot air.
Inside, through heavy strips of dangling plastic, it’s another planet. A stream trickles somewhere nearby, hidden for the moment by the tangle of foliage. Everything is bigger in here: the trees stretching up toward the clouds, visible through the glass ceiling; the waxy green leaves, some the size of small canoes; the flowers; the jewel-toned butterflies that flit from plant to plant. It’s hot and humid, and birds chatter up in the canopy.
“Hello?” The door swings shut behind me. Shrugging my backpack off, I stuff it with my scarf while peering through the tropical plants. “Is anyone here?”
The door was open, but should I not have come in? This greenhouse is the college’s masterpiece, after all, and they don’t even let tourists in, even though selling tickets could make a fortune. It’s all about the science here, science and conservation, and no one is allowed in the greenhouse without an invitation and a supervisor.
“H-hello?” I try again, wincing at the faint stammer. It’s been a long time since I struggled to speak clearly as a kid, and my old speech impediment hardly ever comes back to haunt me. Only when I’m super stressed or excited—and right now, I’m both. “Can anyone h-hear me?”
After freaking years of speech therapy, here I am still tripping over my words—and normally that makes my chest clench tight, but this morning, I’ll give myself some grace. This greenhouse is the reason I picked Kephart College, after all, and I’ve spent two whole years down on that campus, staring longingly up at this cliffside. Of course I’m jittery right now.
Leaves rustle a short way down a winding stone path, and for a crazy moment, I think of tigers and giant snakes: creatures that hide in the jungle then strike like lightning, snatching their prey…
But of course it’s a human man who steps onto the path, dressed in faded jeans and a navy blue t-shirt with the Kephart College logo. His shoulder length bronze hair is half pulled back, and a short beard clings to his square jaw.
“Hey!” he calls, beaming at me. “Be right with you.”
The man smacks his gloved hands against his hips, glancing around him for dropped tools. His arms are tanned and toned, and his chest is broad with muscle. When he leans over to grab a small pair of pruning shears, those jeans cling to his taut ass.
Oh, god.
Wetting my lips, I shake my head to dislodge the ringing sound in my ears. No luck.
Who is that guy?
Behind me, the door swings open again, and another student pushes through the heavy strips of hanging plastic. I blink over my shoulder in a daze, nodding as my fellow Botany major and debate club rival, Jeremiah, peels off his sheepskin jacket in the sudden heat. Jeremiah jerks his chin up at me in return, eyes sparking with challenge.
Here we go.
Let’s be honest: neither Jeremiah nor I would pick the other as our greenhouse placement partner. We’ve had too many vicious debates, tearing each other’s argument to shreds; our Biology grades have come close too many times. Our strained relationship is nothing but sore spots.
But this is the Kephart greenhouse. For some things, you put your rivalries aside.
“Hey,” I say, throat still tight as Jeremiah comes to stand by my shoulder. He’s gazing up at the vines trailing from tree branches, and he barely registers the demigod with the pruning shears. Is he blind? “Can you believe this is finally happening?”
No stammer this time, thank god. The last thing I need is for my debate club rival to sniff out my weakness.
“About time,” Jeremiah agrees. Then, eyeing me: “Think we’ll be graded on a curve for this placement?”
Ugh. Who cares?
How can he think about that stuff now, with birds of paradise flitting overhead and the scent of damp soil in our lungs, and that—that man watching us both curiously as he walks over?
The man tugs off his gloves and tucks them in the back pocket of his jeans so he can shake both our hands. From a distance, he looked roughly our age, but up close, you can tell this guy’s older. He’s built stronger than the average student, with faint lines at the corners of his green eyes, and there’s a steadiness about him that says whatever the world wants to throw in his direction, he’s seen it all before.
When his hand closes around mine, his palm is callused and dry. Sweat trickles down my spine, and the ringing sound is back in my ears, only louder.
“Hey, you two.” It’s a nice voice. Low and melodic—the kind of voice you might hear reading you bedtime stories on an insomnia app. “I’m Kai Akana, the Head Gardener here. I’ll be taking care of you for the next couple months. You must be Eden and Jeremiah?”
Jeremiah says something in response, but I just nod in a daze. The man—Kai—smiles at me kindly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Mid thirties, maybe? Hard to be sure when this man is so sun-kissed, with a deep tan and caramel streaks in his hair. He looks like the sun licked him all over.
Lucky sun.
“So are you both excited for your placement?”
“Definitely,” Jeremiah says at once, all cool confidence.
I open my mouth to agree, but no words come. Chest tightening, I settle for another nod.
Oh hell.
“Great,” the Head Gardener says, looking at me strangely now. That’s two direct questions I haven’t answered. “I’ll show you where to leave your things, and then I’ll give you guys the tour.”
As I trail after Jeremiah and the demigod through the leaves, my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.
Forget a stammer.
Why can’t I say a single word?
Two
Eden
Present day
“And another thing,” I say, flinging a damp swim towel in my laundry hamper. “It’s like Jeremiah thinks we’re on some reality show where we might get voted out of the greenhouse. He acts like he’s so charming and funny, making Kai laugh all the time. And he asks all these elaborate questions about botany, like such a try-hard.”
“Isn’t he a botany major?” my roommate’s boyfriend murmurs. She shushes him, digging an elbow into his ribs where they’re sitting together on her bed, backs leaned against the wall. She’s blonde and feminine; he’s dark-haired and dour. They’re a beau
Poor Lane. Poor Ambrose. He knocked on our door twenty minutes ago, trying to collect her for a date, but instead they’ve both been sucked into my vortex of doom.
It’s like—all the words I can’t say around Kai, all the words that get stuck in my throat in the Head Gardener’s presence, they don’t disappear after a while. Oh, no. Instead they wait in line until I’m back in my dorm room with people who don’t make me too nervous to speak, and then they explode out of me in an incoherent burst.
My roomie deserves a medal. Or at least to go on a date with her sexy older boyfriend when he calls.
Instead I’m mid-rant, cleaning as I go, my cheeks hot with embarrassment and my voice hoarse from all this word vomit.
“You can leave, by the way.” Holding up my waste paper basket, I sweep a medley of crap off my desk. Used post-it notes, book receipts from the library, and clothing labels from recent comfort-buys that I cannot afford patter against the base. “I know this is boring as hell.”
No one wants to hear someone else’s drama. Not in a twenty minute spew, anyway, and especially not when they should be on a hot date with their ex-tutor.
“It’s not boring,” Lane says valiantly, though Ambrose is studiously silent. Sometime in the last few minutes, his hand crept onto her thigh, and now his fingers toy with the hem of her skirt. Lane’s cheeks are pink, and she keeps squirming. “Jeremiah’s an asshole.”
“Yeah.” Slamming the waste paper basket back down, I point at my roommate like she just made a genius observation. “He totally is. He’s been such a douche at debate club all month, mocking me for being silent in the greenhouse.”
“Debate club?” Ambrose murmurs. He sounds confused, and I don’t blame him. Half of this rant has been about how unfair it is that I’m twenty two years old and can’t freaking speak.
“Obviously she can talk,” Lane whispers back, and Ambrose rolls his eyes.
“Yes, obviously. We have first-hand evidence of that.”
“Shh!”
God, now they’re bickering. The most solid, stupid-in-love people I know are side-eyeing each other, and that’s my fault. I did that.
At least he’s still playing with her skirt. At least Lane’s nibbling her bottom lip and staring up at him, her eyes going all hooded and hazy, their argument forgotten.
Hmm. Should I leave? They look like they need the privacy.
But then who would I finish this rant with, voicing these backed-up words? Guess I could take a shower, lecturing the tiles.
“Are you graded on participation?” Ambrose asks, his brisk tone all business. Lane shivers like it’s the sexiest thing she’s ever heard, but I try to ignore that and focus on her boyfriend. “Will it hurt your grade if you never ask any questions?”
My mouth drops open. I freeze with one hand against our mirror, scrubbing away the mascara marks and old smudges with a t-shirt from my hamper. Stress-cleaning the day away. “Oh, shit. I hadn’t even thought of that.”
Ambrose shrugs, but in a conciliatory way. Like he’s sorry to be the bearer of bad news.
“We don’t know that it matters,” Lane puts in quickly, crossing her legs on her twin bed. It’s so funny to see the two of them jammed together on the narrow dorm mattress, all long limbs and creaking bed springs, though surely they must get busy there sometimes when I’m gone.
Ack. No.
Not gonna think about that.
“Why don’t you ask Kai how you’re graded?” she says. I press my lips together and stare. Lane winces and adds: “In an email.”
…Huh.
It’s hard to imagine Kai Akana tip-tapping away on some fiddly little laptop—not with those callused hands and blunt, squared knuckles, and the way he seems like some magical creature that lives full-time in the greenhouse. Like they grew him from the soil for some research project, and now he curls up in the canopy to sleep at night, perched on by birds.
But he works for the college. He wears Kephart College t-shirts to work, and he always parks a college-branded truck out in the scrubby greenhouse parking lot.
Surely the Head Gardener has an email address. Is Lane right? Could I write Kai an email and prove that I’m not completely stupid—just selectively mute? Would he believe me?
“What would I even say?”
Ambrose raises an eyebrow. He’s right: I’ve done nothing but say things since he knocked on our door twenty-some minutes ago.
Flinging my makeshift cloth in their direction, I scrub my face and turn away. “Oh, go on your date already. It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”
Lane’s already sliding on her shoes, but her voice is worried. “Are you sure? I really don’t mind staying, Eden.”
She would, too. Just like I’d do anything for my roomie in return. Some of the girls are tense as hell with the roommates they were allocated, but not Lane and I. We won the jackpot, and I’ll never take her for granted.
“Sorry for making you late,” I say into her hair, squeezing Lane into a hug as she heads for the door. She smells like coconut, and she’s wearing a white t-shirt tucked into a floral wrap skirt. Lane’s been hard at work calling on spring since mid-January, and her efforts are finally paying off. It’s still light out, and pink blossoms wave on the tree branches outside our window.
“Anytime.” Lane squeezes me back. “Save the email as a draft and I’ll help you go over it later.”
“You’re the best.”
They both say goodbye, already reaching for each other with greedy hands as they spill out of the door, on their way to dinner or drinks or a movie or whatever it is loved-up couples do in Kephart. I wouldn’t personally know.
As soon as the door swings shut behind them, I’m left in silence and a half-cluttered dorm room. My pulse thuds in my wrists, and dance music floats down the hall from the bathrooms.
I can do this. I can write Kai Akana an email.
Sucking in a deep breath, I stomp to the desk and lever my laptop open.
* * *
From: eden.hopkins@kephart.edu
To: kai.akana@kephart.edu
Subject: Surprise!! Can string words together after all :)
Dear Mr Akana
To whom it may concern
Hello!!!
Hey Kai,
Thank you so much for the greenhouse placement so far. I know I haven’t mentioned this out loud, but I’ve been excited about this for YEARS, and it’s everything I dreamed it would be. So… thanks. For that.
I have a quick question about our grades. I know some classes require active participation—asking questions, raising our hands, etc. This is going to be hard for you to believe, but I usually DO participate like that, but I’m having… a medical issue a hormonal breakdown some issues with speaking up in the greenhouse. You might have noticed.
Are we graded for active participation in that way? Can I send you questions via email instead? Would that work?? I know it’s a lot to ask, and it would be extra effort for you, but I seriously cannot get a word out in that greenhouse. Please don’t ask me why.
Okay, hope you have a great weekend. I’m not insane, I promise.
Best,
Eden
Three
Kai
Here I’ve been, thinking my sweet undergrad is so scared of me that she can’t say a peep. It’s been messing with my brain, honestly. Whenever I’m walking through town late in the evening, I’ve been zig-zagging back and forth across the road like some messed up chicken, trying to reassure the lone female walkers that I’m not following them.
I’ve been second guessing my beard, my clothes, my forearm tat. Even watched a true crime documentary one night, trying to compare my own looks to the perp’s gaunt, dead-eyed stare.
Couldn’t figure out why I give Eden the heebie jeebies so badly. I’m still not sure why, to be honest—but at least she’s emailed me. That’s something.
Hey Kai.
That greeting doesn’t sound like someone who low-key thinks I’m a creep. At least, I’d like to think it doesn’t.
Hope you have a great weekend.
Would she wish Ted Bundy a great weekend? Unlikely.
Leaning back in my kitchen chair, I scan Eden’s email a second time, lingering for way too long on her email address. It’s not like she’s giving me her number—I know that. But now I have a way to contact her, don’t I? Theoretically.
