Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 33474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
I want to chase after it, but a second set of footsteps creaks over the deck, and I freeze. Robin’s voice trails around the house. “What is it?”
Looking at me, Lyle calls, “Nothing. Just Tool running about.”
I sag.
He catches my arm, squeezes. I look at him, then away as that chest-squeezing sympathy hits me again. I push off the house—
He shifts at the same time and we instinctively grab one another to catch our balance. A hand clutches my arm, the other grasps my shirt at my waist. My arms come around his shoulders like a hug, and my lips smack against his forehead.
We freeze.
I peel my lips from him. “Sorry.”
My shirt tightens. Lyle’s words funnel around my collar. “It’s fine.”
I release a relieved breath as we untangle ourselves.
Lyle averts his gaze. “I’d better get back.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
He hums and moves swiftly around the house while I grab the fir and slink back to my truck, still tasting Lyle’s shock against my lips.
I fluff out the last bit of pea straw and nestle it around a lavender plant, then take a critical look. The perfect square of ready-lawn gleams in perfect bright green stripes, framed by a perfect path of white quartz pebbles. Against the boundary fences to each side, standard roses alternate with the lavender, and across the back the pear trees stretch out their young branches across wires. In a few years, those branches will meet at the tips and offer up three perfect rows of fruit. The big lawn would be perfect for a dog, even if it’s not the dog Lyle was hoping for; the planting is resilient enough to withstand running, jumping paws, but will still be beautiful. It’s simple, but I like that—the nod to formality suits the gingerbready feel of the house, and it should be easy enough for a novice gardener to keep it looking good.
Lyle’s garden is done.
Instead of coming to meet me when I knock on the back door, he calls me in, and I pull off my shoes and enter the villa.
Lyle is in his room, bent over his computer, typing madly. He bites his bottom lip as he concentrates on the screen. He stops jabbing the keyboard for a brief second to laugh, and then madly goes at it again.
I clear my throat. Even though he called me in, he jumps as if I’ve snuck up on him.
“Is that the lizard game you’re working on?”
Lyle catches his breath and gestures to the seat next to him. I lean forward to take a better look. “You’re not wrong. Scott will love it.”
He shuts his laptop and sits back in his chair, twiddling his thumbs. “You’re done, I guess?”
“The only thing I left out was the dog kennel.”
His nostrils flare as he breathes in, and his cheeks pinken.
“Yes, well.” He lifts his gaze to mine with a lifeless smile. “Weren’t we both hopelessly in love with him?”
I stand up and push the chair in.
“Maybe you should stop,” he murmurs. “With the fir.”
“It’s a gift.”
“He might not thank you the way you want.”
“A friend deserves magic too.” I walk away, stomach lurching.
Lyle’s chair scrapes over the hardwood floor. He pads after me and catches my arm in a warm, solid grip. “Jase—” I glance at his hand on me and he looks too. He lets go. “Why are you running away?”
“I’m not. I’ve finished the job.”
“We can be friendly, right? You can stay to chat.”
I eye him suspiciously. “Are you . . . testing my emotional maturity?”
He looks up with an arch of his brow. “What if I am?”
“Honestly, I might fail.”
Lyle smiles gently. “Drink?”
We move to the kitchen and I stand on the opposite side of the counter as he pulls a beer from the fridge.
I snatch it before he can open it, and set it aside. “Just tea.”
Two teas later, we’re still sitting at a small table in the corner of the living room, under the soft light of a lamp. We’ve covered a bunch of superficial topics, and Lyle doesn’t shy away from the deeper ones. His eyes glitter, stuck on the middle distance between us. His finger draws through the condensation his mug has left on the table.
I twist my mug. Sip, and stare at him over the rim.
He chuckles. I do too.
“When my last boyfriend left, he said there was no magic left. I guess I thought . . . if I could make some . . .”
He raises an eyebrow.
“The magic always seems to run out before the trees have grown up.”
He ponders this for a while, and when he speaks his voice is contemplative. “It’s easy to think magic is the surprise, the wonder, the breathlessness of all the firsts. But isn’t there something more remarkable about knowing the hard work that goes into the seconds, thirds, ten-thousandths? Breathlessness turning into sighs of contentment. That’s true magic.”