Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow?
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
THE NEXT morning, Jeremy waited until he was dressed and heading out for work to put the cat out. “Stay outta trouble,” he said in parting as he headed toward his truck.
He could have walked to work easily, but he chose to drive, not only because he often ended up needing the truck to run an errand or haul something, but because it seemed like a good routine to get into, an official way of “going to work”—driving there, like the majority of Americans did every day.
Slamming the slightly rickety pickup door, he walked up to the hut to find that Tamra had begun painting it a retro beachy coral color. Other accents, like the borders on each green, would be done in the same shade, reflecting the town’s name and echoing a vintage Florida feel.
She greeted him with a smile. “I’m excited to start the painting—makes it seem like real progress, like it’s really coming together.”
So she was bending over backwards to be nice, huh? Well, fine, but he wasn’t biting. Because sooner or later, she’d pull back the bait. So he’d just save them both the trouble and not take it in the first place. “Great,” he said, but didn’t bother meeting her eyes. Or taking in the rest of her, either. Even if he’d already noticed that she looked cute today in slightly shorter-than-usual shorts and a fitted yellow tee that hugged her curves and showed just a hint of cleavage.
But quit noticing her cleavage. She’s your boss, not a woman to be trifled with—she’d made that abundantly clear.
He knew his short response had injected a little tension into the air, but he didn’t care. Even when she tried again. “I think this will be a good system—you build and I paint.”
“Sounds good.” He added a brief nod this time, but that was it.
And he sensed her disappointment, but he didn’t care about that, either. Especially when it made her start getting less friendly again. It was what he’d expected, in fact. She’d proved his predictions true.
And that was how their days began to go. All work, no play.
Even as the tension continued to rise between them, daily, sometimes hourly.
Of course, it wasn’t easy to act distant all the time. And they were completing a big project together. So as it progressed—as the hut was completed, as other pieces took shape—there were moments of shared . . . something.
It should have been shared joy, or a shared feeling of accomplishment. But instead it was as if they were each forced to celebrate silently, refusing to acknowledge the teamwork involved.
When they completed the final touches on the hut together and stood back to look, Jeremy felt a pride that wasn’t quite complete if you didn’t share it with someone. He glanced over at her and almost smiled. But he couldn’t quite go there.
And he sensed her wanting to smile, too, but instead, as their gazes met and then dropped quickly away from each other, she said, “It looks great.”
He still didn’t smile, either, as he said, “Yeah, it does. We did good work.”
She nodded stiffly. “You did a good job. I . . .”
“What?” he asked when she stopped.
She sighed, shifted her weight from one tennis shoe to the other. “I . . . know we’ve had our differences, but I would be remiss if I didn’t give credit where it’s due. You’re a good carpenter.”
Huh. Jeremy hadn’t expected that. It was gratifying to know that someone—okay, maybe not just someone, but her in particular—saw that he was good at something. So for the first time in days, he let himself relax, let an honest, easy smile spread across his face. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate that.”
And he thought she’d smile back.
But instead she just said, “Sure,” and looked away.
And . . . shit. That easily, she’d let him know they weren’t friends or anything else. Again. What on earth made this woman so icy? He knew what he’d been through—what on earth could have turned her into an even colder version of him?
Well, it didn’t matter. Back to business. It was what it was, and that was fine.
Of course, it would be finer if he could quit noticing her—her hair, the curve of her breasts beneath the more fitted clothes she’d begun wearing lately, the smooth, pale legs that had started to darken just a bit beneath the sun. It would be finer if he still didn’t wish he could make her smile, put her at ease with him, make her want to put him at ease, too. It would be finer if he didn’t wish for something more with her.
But he moved forward by just trying to focus on the work they did. He focused on getting another check at the end of the week and repaying more of his debts. He focused on things that made him feel good—like sitting out behind the Happy Crab in the evening. Like buying an extra piece of fish if he picked up dinner at the Hungry Fisherman, and crumbling it into bits for Captain when he came around.
One night he even called his mom on the phone. His sister or Lucky called him every few days to check on him, and when Tessa told him their parents were asking after him but had gotten reluctant to call ever since he’d become so reclusive, he decided to ease his mother’s worries. “I’m doing better, Mom,” he’d told her, sitting at the picnic table one night.
He could hear her joy through the phone. “That’s so good to hear, Jeremy.”
He still didn’t want to socialize a lot, though. Even when Reece invited him to a bonfire on the beach one night, he declined, claiming to be too tired from work. And when he saw Christy Knight at Gino’s one evening and she suggested he venture over to the Sunset Celebration, he’d told her maybe—knowing good and well he wouldn’t go. He’d come a long way, but he still didn’t like crowds and probably never would.
It was that very night, sitting at the picnic table, when he looked up to see Polly crossing the Hungry Fisherman parking lot toward him in her usual rust-colored waitress dress.
Jeremy tossed her a grin. “How many of those dresses you own, Polly?” He’d gotten comfortable with Polly fast.
“Fourteen,” she said without missing a beat.
He couldn’t stop his eyes from widening.
“Got a nice two-week rotation goin’.” Stopping in front of him, she peered down at her dress, pulling out the wide, pointed collar a bit, studying it. “Just between us, though, they’re gettin’ a little worn. I try to take care of ’em, but I’ve had ’em a long time.”
Jeremy only nodded.
“Cami keeps tellin’ me I should update my style, get more current. She thinks I should wear khaki pants and a shirt of some sort. But I don’t know.” She shook her head doubtfully. “I been wearin’ these dresses ’bout as long as I can remember—I’m real used to ’em. I go straight from my nightgown into this dress and back—don’t own much else, because I’m here all the time. What do you think?”
Jeremy pondered it a minute. “I think you should do whatever makes you feel best,” he told her honestly. “But . . . change can be good.”
Polly seemed to take that in, think it over. Then she glanced down at Captain, who’d been at Jeremy’s feet under the table the whole time, unnoticed by her until now. “Looks like you got yourself a friend there.”
“Seems that way,” he agreed grudgingly. “He, uh, shows up a lot.”
She drew back slightly, studying the cat more closely. “Seems to be puttin’ on a little weight, not lookin’ as scrawny as before.” Then she gave Jeremy a thorough once-over as well. “And you don’t look like you’re puttin’ on any weight for a fella who eats as much as you seem to lately.” She ended with a wink, making it clear she knew he was feeding the cat.
“Fish isn’t very fattening,” he joked. “And I do hard, physical labor every day.”
In response, she stooped down, scooped Captain up in her arms and held him high, until she was face to face—almost nose to nose—with him. “Just as I suspected.”
“What’s that?” Jeremy asked.
“This cat has fish breath.” She set the big gray tomcat back down. “And I didn’t give him anything tonight, and we been lockin’ our garbage cans up. Not because I don’t like feedin’ him, but that whole health department thing, ya know. I hate to do it, but . . .”
Seeing her remorseful look, Jeremy set her at ease. “I get it, and yeah, you caught me. I’ve been making sure he gets at least one meal a day.”
She smiled, then cast a conspiratorial look. “Tell ya what. Now that I know you’re lookin’ out for him, when you come in, I’ll just toss an extra piece of fish or whatever we got left over in a separate bag and slide it across the counter to ya, sneaky-like, free of charge. Abner never needs to know. And together, we’ll get this fella fattened up some more.”
“Sounds good,” Jeremy said.
“Well, I’d better get back over there.” She hiked a thumb toward the restaurant behind her. “Now that we’re pickin’ up more night business, I might have to hire some other waitresses soon.”
Jeremy voiced his thought out loud. “Wonder how they’ll like wearing dresses like yours.” Though he finished with a wink.
And Polly’s brow knit with worry. “They might not, now that you mention it. And I like things to match.” She sighed. “Guess I oughta give that some thought.”
As she turned to go, she motioned down at the cat one last time to add, “You two make a pretty good team.”
Jeremy just laughed. “Guess us homeless guys get each other.”
Polly stopped walking, looked back, and said, “You’re not homeless, Jeremy. You mighta been when you got here, but you’re not anymore.” Then went on her way.
THE following morning, Tamra looked in the mirror.
The truth was, Christy had been right hinting that she’d let herself go. And ever since she’d started putting just a little bit of thought and care into her appearance, she’d felt better. Inside. Not like it changed her whole world or anything, but she’d just felt a little more confident.
Of course, the further truth was that, if she got really, really honest with herself, part of the impetus was about . . . Jeremy. Even if that made no sense. You don’t want him, but you want him to think you look good. You don’t want him, but you want him to want you. The man was a walking contradiction—who created more and more contradictions inside her.
She still thought his beard and unkempt hair were awful. And yet his eyes, his smile—underneath all the hairiness, something continued to beckon her.
Maybe it’s still just your unfulfilled sexual desires. Because they continued to torture her, making her wonder how someone so focused on higher creative endeavors could at the same time be drawn in to also focusing on something ultimately as meaningless as sex. And sure, she knew sex had meaning when you cared for someone, but when you just wanted it, independent of love or affection . . . well, to Tamra, that felt meaningless with a capital M.
Truthfully, though, she feared her strange attraction to Jeremy Sheridan had come to be about more than just overactive hormones. She’d come to like certain things about him. She respected his work ethic, and his carpentry skills. She’d seen him, in small ways, begin to be nice to people. Not her, but other people.
He can’t be nice to you because you won’t let him.
And why was that? Why, every time the man attempted any cordiality with her, did she shut him down?
Walking to the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of hot tea from the bright yellow kettle on the stove on which she’d hand-painted flowers. Then she walked out her French doors onto the back porch and down into her garden. The morning sun had just begun to burn off the misty chill of an autumn Florida dawn and the vines and trees and flowers glistened with dew.
She sat down in an Adirondack chair, and as she gazed into the palm trees and bougainvillea and other thick foliage and blooms that seemed to cocoon her in safety there, she finally understood. Why she couldn’t be nice to Jeremy. It was about exactly that—safety. It was . . . one more cocoon. Only not a physical one.
Something about him scares you. Something about wanting him scares you.
It’s high time you got over that, you know—being afraid of a man, assuming he’s going to hurt you.
But Jeremy was such an unknown quantity. Even the beard and messy hair made him seem . . . hidden. She wished she could really see his face.
And his past was a mystery, as well. She didn’t know what he’d suffered, but clearly his experiences in Afghanistan had him pretty screwed up if he’d shown up in Coral Cove with no money and no plan.
Though she didn’t even know if she was afraid of having sex with him—because it had been so long for her—or afraid she might start to care for a man who was broken in ways she could never fix. Or maybe it was both of those things—and more.
She took a sip of tea and let the hot liquid trickle down her throat, warm her up inside, remembering that sometimes fear was healthy. Early life in a commune had taught Tamra to respect her fears and trust her instincts.
She supposed she just liked things safe. Coming from a place where she’d had no control, she’d made a life where she had total control. For a while, money had been tight—it wasn’t easy making a living as a craft artist—but over time she’d built a healthy business. And now she was getting extra income from Jack and even managing to save some for a rainy day. So she felt more in control of her life than ever.
If you didn’t count sex or lack of it.
And if you didn’t count Jeremy Sheridan.
But you don’t have to count Jeremy Sheridan. You’ve pretty much counted him out already, in fact. You’ve decided you’re not brave enough to explore your attraction to him. You’re too afraid to go there. And maybe that was best. After all, lately he hadn’t exactly seemed interested anymore anyway.
When tears welled behind her eyes, she pushed them back. Lord, she hadn’t cried in ages. And if she wanted to cry a little now . . . well, it wasn’t about Jeremy! It was about . . . accepting that, as wonderful a life as she’d built for herself, there were some things she just probably wouldn’t ever let herself have. Romance. Love.
You told Christy and Cami you didn’t need those things.
And you don’t. Really, you don’t. You’ve gotten by fine without them all this time. And you’ll keep right on getting by.
IT was mid-morning that day when, at the jobsite, a local nursery delivered an entire truckload of shrubbery, ornamental grasses, and other plants—several days early.
“Looks like we’ll have to change gears and get these in the ground,” she told Jeremy.
As they both stood watching the guys from the nursery unload the bushes, Jeremy said, “I’m glad you got big ones. They’re extra heavy to move around.”
Tamra replied in the same dry tone. “I’ll be sure to stay out of your way when you’re carrying them.”
“Good idea.”
Of course, that was easier said than done, especially since the nursery had delivered different amounts of different things than she’d thought she ordered. Since the invoice amount was what she’d expected anyway, she decided to just make it work rather than sort out the mess. But that meant having Jeremy move shrubs around as she pointed and told him where to put things, only to sometimes change her mind.
It happened enough that she began to cringe each time she asked him. “Um, can you move that hibiscus over about five feet?” Unfortunately, it was probably the fifth time she’d requested he move that particular one.
“Sure,” he said, clenching his teeth slightly as he hefted it back into his arms. “It’s not like it’s breaking my back or anything.”
“I’m sorry.” She meant it. “But once it’s in the ground, it’s in the ground. We need to make it look right.”
After two more hibiscus moves, he appeared exasperated, finally saying, “You really think it makes a difference? Whether this bush is here or five feet from here?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes, actually. If you were a landscape designer, you’d understand.”
“Are you a landscape designer?” he asked skeptically.
She gave him a pointed look. “For your information, I could be if I wanted to. I garden a lot.”
“Oh. Well. Then you’re definitely the expert here. So go ahead, tell me the ten new places you want me to move this bush before you make up your mind.”
It took the rest of the day before Tamra was satisfied with the layout. “It’s too late to plant now, but we’ll get them all into the ground and watered tomorrow,” she told him.
“Good—I can get a little rest before you start cracking the whip again,” Jeremy grumbled. Then he looked to where a large bush still rested in the parking lot. “Uh, what about that one?”
Tamra looked, too. Crap. She’d known it was sitting there, but had totally forgotten about it at some point. Where could she incorporate it in the design?
And then Jeremy seemed to tune in to her thoughts—and said, “Oh-ho-ho no. No more rearranging. I mean it. I’m done.”
So she thought a minute and said, “I suppose I could use it at my house and just reimburse Jack.”
He seemed appeased. “Good idea. And I bet Jack would even let you have it for free.”
But then she pursed her lips. It was a big bush. Too big for her lift. “Of course,” she began cautiously, “I, uh, can’t really get it where I need it to go by myself.”
And he let out a tired sigh. “Let me guess. You want me to take it there for you.”
She tried for a softer expression—though he made that difficult. Or maybe it was her fault—she wasn’t sure anymore. “Could you?”
“Do I have a choice?”
She shrugged, relented, tired of feeling at odds with him. “You don’t have to do it,” she said. “I’ll just call Jack or Fletcher or Reece and ask one of them.”
But at this, he only sighed. “No, you won’t. Of course I’ll take the damn bush to your damn house. Let’s go.”