I'm Sure (3 page)

Moments later, a waitress delivers laminated card menus.

“What do you like?” Jason asks, studying the menu.

“I can’t decide whether to order The Gobbler or The PC Paisano.”

Jason’s forehead wrinkles. “PC Paisano?”

“Yea. Maggie, the current owner, has her own brand of humor. The PC is for Politically Correct. It’s a No-Kill sandwich. Vegetarian. Organic. Eggplant parmigiana on whole wheat bread with organic mozzarella.”

Jason raises his eyebrows, nodding. “Okay. Do you, ah, want to order both, and we can split them?”

I blink, my mouth dropping open. He’s a splitter? Men hate to split meals. And if I was thick enough not to pick this up from my own limited experience, Sara has informed me of this fact on numerous occasions. It’s how she rationalizes spending money to go out for lunch at work, because she has someone—me—who will pay for half.

I LOVE to split. “Really?” I ask. “Do you really want to?”

He looks up toward the waitress a few tables away, and then back down at the menu.

A tell if I ever saw one.

“That would be fine.”

“But…” I lean forward. “You would rather have…

He draws in a breath. “My choice is not PC. The Smokin’ Hot Pastrami? Would that bother you? To be at a table with that?”

I burst out laughing. “Not at all. I’ll go with The Gobbler to keep you company.”

“You aren’t vegetarian?”

“No. I don’t eat a lot of meat, but I eat it when I have a craving.”

“I noticed the chicken coop where you work. I didn’t know…”

“If I would eat poultry? Because of Chester, Arthur, Violet, Petunia, and Poppy?”

“Yea, I guess. Are those the chickens’ names?”

“And roosters, yes. Plus Duke and Daisy, the goats. They keep the kids occupied while the parents shop.”

Most of us nursery employees are pretty besotted with the animals. But I push thoughts of Violet and her friends out of my mind since I told him I’d order The Gobbler. Jason is saved from responding to an illogical logic that allows me to be quite fond of our nursery poultry, but eat a turkey sandwich. We order, and I realize, as usual, I’m quite hungry. Working outside does that. “Do you cook, Jason?”

He shakes his head. “No. I can boil spaghetti. Make garlic bread. My aunt’s the cook.”

“What does she like to cook?”

He grins, his eyes alight. “She’s a D’Annucci, too, like me. My father’s sister. She cooks Italian. Really good Italian.” He tips his head. “How about you, Megan? Would you have an Irish last name to go with the first?”

“I do. Megan Donovan. With a sister Kelly, and a brother Sean.”

“They live around here?”

“No. They live in Washington, where I grew up. Around Seattle. It’s far, but I get home at least once or twice a year.”

“How did you end up in southern California?”

“I went to Cal Polytech for horticulture and discovered most of the other students all came from family businesses. They already knew way more than I would learn from college classes. My roommate had a family nursery outside of San Diego, so my third summer, I came down here to work.” I drag my water glass across the table. “That’s when I discovered water gardening, and I never left. My parents weren’t happy I didn’t finish my degree. I’m the odd duck in my family. But I’m doing what I want, so they’ve adjusted.”

Jason reaches over the table and takes my hand in his.

Much as I try scrubbing at the dirt, my nails are almost never 100% clean, and I’ve got a long scratch across my knuckles. And anyhow, in the middle of a work day, that’s part of who I am.

He turns my hand palm up and runs his finger across the calluses.

My heart skitters a beat at the feel of his hands cradling mine. His touch exudes caring. Imagining him tending a person in distress is easy.

Need I say it? I like the feel of him touching me. The world is charmingly in order right here, right now. But what is he doing? “Is something wrong with my hand?”

“Every time I see you, you’re in the water. And you’re the odd duck. I was just seeing”—he turns his head to examine my palm, his carved cheeks in profile—“if there’s a web between your fingers…”

Bemusement laces his tone. “Like a Labrador retriever?” I retort, stifling the urge to flex my fingers; I don’t want him to let my hand go.

He laughs and releases my hand. “My favorite animal. But a dog? No. That’s not what you bring to mind.”

His grin is so open, so easy, I decide to divulge something I’ve never told anyone. “I did wish for scales when I was younger. I thought it would be cool to be a mermaid.” He takes me in for a beat, his gaze deep.

“I can see that.”

His voice is low and velvety. I draw in a ragged breath.

And our sandwiches arrive.

I level my breathing. We both dig in.

He tells me about the side business he runs with one of the other firefighters. They install in-ground sprinkler systems. Now fixing his aunt’s pond makes a lot of sense. We share French fries. I ordered sweet potato, and he went for traditional. We have none of that first date awkwardness…because I think that’s what this is. A first date. A really, really good first date.

I refuse dessert, and he insists on paying the bill. We pass back out into the deli section, and my gaze roams to the glass-covered plate of chocolate-covered macaroon.

He’s watching me. “You do want dessert,” he chortles. He makes a move toward the counter.

I put my hand on his arm to stop him, which feels perfectly natural. “I’m fine.”

He twists away, placing his hand on the curve of my back to propel me forward.

His body is now close. I inhale his distinctive fresh scent and stifle a sigh. Using our hands to communicate doesn’t feel forward, or forced…just right, like we belong operating in tandem.

“Come on, Megan. This is one of the perks of having an active job. Dessert!”

“Megan!” Maggie booms out. “How was your lunch?”

You would swear Jason’s name was Megan the way she’s staring at him. “I’m over here, Maggie.” I wave.

Jason snorts out a chuckle.

“Lunch was good. As always.”

She whips her gaze to me, beaming. Flashing her white polished nails, she swivels the huge glass jar of pastel candy conversation hearts forward on the counter. “Play our Valentine’s Day contest! Guess how many hearts are in the jar.” She waggles dark, well-penciled eyebrows. “You might win a free lunch.” She focuses on Jason. “For two.”

Jason steps to the counter, like a swaggering cowboy to the saloon bar, and he cocks his head. Narrowing his gaze, he studies the jar.

I watch him. “Are you counting?” A note of incredulousness sounds in my voice.

“Shhhh,” he answers me back, intent.

Maggie’s delight is so uncontainable she can’t stand still. She’s Shuffling Off To Buffalo back there on her linoleum floor.

A minute later, Jason picks up one of the slips of paper and a pencil, scribbles his answer, and drops the paper into the pink heart-shaped contest box.

“So how many?” I ask.

Jason shoots a sideways pretend glare. “I can’t tell you. Not until you come up with your own guess.”

I hate these contests. Counting and figuring never gets me anywhere close. Sara tells me to connect with my intuition, like the ability is a charm I put on my necklace and I’m good to go. I take a deep breath and let a number come into my head. I write it down and slip my entry through the box slot. “There.”

Maggie floats on air down the counter to top off the coffee of one of her regulars.

Jason grins.

I give him a self-conscious smile back. I’m not accustomed to enjoying such simple, silly fun.

Jason buys two of the macaroons from the young man behind the counter, who offers a reverent thank you when Jason puts his change in the man’s college tip jar.

Maybe “love” isn’t in the air, but something has us all swaddled in well-being. Valentine’s Day?

Jason hands me the brown bag with Peggy’s orange logo.

“You need to take one.” I go to open the bag.

But he covers my hand with his. “They’re for you. My aunt makes more desserts than I need.” He pats his stomach.

His washboard stomach.

“Have one now, and have one for later.”

Back at the nursery, I realize I’ve taken a long lunch break. I didn’t even notice the passage of time. I’ll be at this next client’s house through dinner.

I turn to him in the parking lot, shifting my weight. I huff out a quick breath, edgy about being seen with Jason. I don’t want my coworkers to tarnish this time with him by teasing me all week. “Thank you,” I tell him. “This was a really nice surprise.”

He acknowledges with a nod. “How about dinner next time?”

I melt, and it’s not the heat. “I’d like that.” I smile. My breath catches in my throat.

“How about Saturday?” he asks, his eyebrows arching.

I shake my head. “I’m driving to Santa Monica. Bachelorette party for a woman who worked here.” I pause. “I’m not back until later on Sunday.” This is actually good. I appear like I have a social life, which I don’t. Do I offer another night, or is that too forward? I firm my jaw. I’m not letting him slip away again. “How about Friday?”

He grimaces, slides his phone out of his pocket, and takes a couple swipes. “I’m working. And I’m not done until 6:00 at the earliest. Is 8:00 okay?”

“Yes. That’s okay.” Exuberance fills my throat to bursting. Date two, already!

“Where would you like to go?” he asks, taking his keys from his pocket.

“Do you have a restaurant you like in Bradley Park?”

“Trattoria,” he answers without hesitation.

“How ’bout if I meet you there at 8:00?” Why did I offer that? Because at the thought of taking this next step again, I’ve unleashed a plague-worthy swarm of butterflies in my gut.

He tips his head.

Almost imperceptibly, but I see it. I’m sure he planned to pick me up. “That will give you more time.”

He nods, his expression still neutral. “Okay. I’ll make the reservation. Shall we exchange numbers, just in case?”

My stomach plummets. In case what? You cancel? I push away the thought, determined not to drive him away, too, by giving mixed messages. I do want this, no matter what I tell Sara. And no matter how many times I do something stupid like suggest I meet him there. We exchange numbers and say good bye. Before I walk inside the nursery building, I turn back and see he’s getting into a dark green Jeep. Of course he is. I love Jeeps.

So much for those plants for his aunt. He could have asked her before he came how many she wanted or called her. Throwing off any dark clouds I’d conjured, I smile. With a spring in my step, I head back to my ponds.

Chapter Three

Megan

The week drags by too slowly until Friday, which zips by too fast, and I get home from work later than planned. Today was my day with a client who wanted to talk about plants more than she wanted me to finish planting. I like talking about plants, but this is a business. When I meet one of these clients, I attempt to circumvent the discussion, or add consult hours, but it’s not a perfect science, especially when I’m captive on site with a truckload of plants and fish waiting for a new home.

I kick off my boots and yank off my dirty clothes in the mudroom of the ranch house I bought last year. The house is no showpiece yet, but even so, I leave my dirty clothes in a hamper by the garage door. I hurry to the shower. Fifteen minutes later, my hair and I are clean, my legs are reshaved, and I’m in front of my walk-in closet considering what to wear.

From way in back, I extricate my flirty tulip-shaped skirt. While the iron heats, I decide between a silk peasant blouse and a sleeveless knit. I go for the sleeveless and choose a wrap for when the temperature drops.

Pedicures aren’t a treat, but more of a necessity for feet like mine that spend so much time in sweaty socks and boots. I slip on sandals that showcase my “What A Peach!” polished toes, and then fuss over my make-up. I’m going for effortlessly fabulous. When I finish, I have a few minutes to run a dryer over my hair. I’m wearing it down and natural over my shoulders. It’s one of my better features, and my natural waves makes this style look kind of mermaidy.

Time to leave. I pick up my keys. My stomach takes a giddy flip. I’m headed to meet Jason.

When I arrive at the restaurant, I don’t see his Jeep. Inside is a lively hum, people talking and enjoying themselves, with the inviting scent of roasted garlic in the air. I am now starving. I look over the dining room surrounding the open kitchen, but he’s not in sight.

The dark-haired hostess catches my eye.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m meeting someone…D’Annuci? I don’t think he’s here.”

She checks her listing, and shakes her head. “No one has checked in for that reservation. May I show you to your table?”

I don’t know that I want to sit before Jason arrives, but the entry way is crowded, and I’ve worked a long day. I nod my agreement and follow her.

At 8:21, I accept the waiter’s third offer of water and start in on the bread. I’ve been staring at the bottle of herbed olive oil and the glass canister of grated cheese long enough. I mix the two on my bread plate, dip my bread, and take a bite. The savory flavors are a perfect blend, but the fact I’m still sitting by myself, while everyone around me is enjoying the company at their table, puts a damper on my enjoyment.