Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
The rest of the area had been cleared, and the entire floor was littered with gardening tools, soil, seedlings, and plants.
It was too much to take in at once, my eyes shifting from one corner of the room to the next in a frenzy before I closed my eyes tight and took a deep breath. When I opened them again, I started over, beginning at one inch and letting my gaze float to the next.
There was a brand-new wooden plant shelf, its pine surfaces empty and begging to be filled. Next to it was a working table and two low stools. The table had gloves and trimmers and other tools, all brand new.
The floor was a jungle of color — marble queen pothos, African violet flowers, pearls and jade pothos, a rubber plant, an arrowhead plant, a Christmas cactus, a split-leaf thaumatophyllum, neon pothos. I shook my head as I identified more and more, everything from tiny tugela cliff-calanchoe succulents to a large and healthy monstera.
My hand floated up to my mouth, covering it as my eyes welled without me willing them to. I turned to find Vince watching me with his hands in his pockets, his brows furrowed, a slight tilt in the corner of his mouth.
“Do you like it?”
“What is it?” I breathed.
He ran a hand back through his hair. “I know you’ve been missing your plants. I thought maybe you could make a home for some new ones here.”
I blinked, turning back to survey the room with my heart thundering in my chest. “Did you build that shelf?”
He nodded, his smile shy.
“And these,” I said, bending to carefully retrieve one of the empty pots. There was an assortment of them in the corner, from five-inch to twenty-four inch, if I was guessing. They all had the perfect drainage holes drilled into the bottom. The one I had was creamy white, with painted black bohemian designs swirling around it. “Did you make these?”
My eyes floated back to him, and he shrugged. “I thought it could be a blending of the things we love — your plants, my pottery.”
I tried to swallow, but my throat was thick, blocked with a wad of sandpaper. “You did this for me?”
His eyes searched mine, worry etched into his brows as he moved close enough to slide his thumb along my jaw. “Oh God, I didn’t freak you out, did I? I just thought—”
“I love it,” I said, interrupting him. And as soon as I carefully set the pot back down, I threw myself into his arms, inhaling his masculine scent and how it mixed with the earth in that room. “I love it.”
He sighed, as if he were relieved, burying his nose in my neck.
Every part of my brain wanted to overanalyze in that moment. He’d bought a whole fucking indoor garden for me.
But he’d also immediately worried that it would freak me out, that I would read too much into it.
So I did my best not to, squeezing him tight and shoving anything that resembled feelings into the pit of my stomach where I hoped they’d stay.
When he released me, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I hope you know I’m completely clueless when it comes to what to do next. I don’t even know if I got the right supplies.”
I looked around with a smile so big it hurt my cheeks, excitement thrumming in my veins. “You got plenty. Let’s get to work.”
Vince put on a playlist before letting me take charge, directing him how to help me. I started with assigning each plant to its new pot, making sure we had them all in the right sizes and with the right drainages. Then, I showed him how to repot them, arching a brow when I asked if he realized what a mess this was going to make on his beautiful wood floors. But he didn’t care. He promised me the cleanup would be worth it.
After that, we fell into a comfortable rhythm, repotting each plant and clipping any dead leaves off before we situated them on the shelf. I smiled wider each time a new one was placed, feeling a fuzzy warmth spreading in my chest at the notion that we were displaying a little piece of each of us.
“Why do you listen to French music?” I asked as I worked on the monstera and he carefully packed soil into one of the pots with pothos.
“It’s soothing,” he said.
“Do you have any idea what they’re saying?”
“Not a damn clue.”
I laughed, listening to the song currently playing. It was slow and romantic somehow, even though I couldn’t comprehend it. “It is quite lovely.”
“I feel about music the way I feel about pottery, I think,” he said. “I don’t have to fully understand it to know that it’s beautiful.” He paused, frowning at his own words, and then his gaze sifted to me. “Funny. I kind of feel that way about you, too.”