Page 18 of Three Reckless Words

Sighing, I crouch down to pull out another weed and sit back, looking at my handiwork. A bee lands on the flower I just cleared space around, and I smile.

“Hi, buddy.”

Its little antenna waves as it hunts for pollen, collecting it on its legs like a dusting of gold. Nature is so beautiful it hurts sometimes.

At least by helping, I’m giving them more space to do their vital work, making this garden bloom and turning their effort into delicious honey.

I’m also giving myself a Winnie-specific therapy session no money could buy from any shrink.

I’m so engrossed in my work I don’t notice the rustle of footsteps behind me.

But I do hear a throat clearing.

Swearing, I stand and turn, all in one movement that would be smooth if I didn’t spin face-to-face with the grumpy owner dude from yesterday.

He’s a damn giant.

The way he towers over me alone is enough to make me unsteady.

I take two steps back, giving up on being smooth.

Honestly, that’s also because I forgot just howgood-lookingthis bear of a man is.

It feels illegal for anyone to be this attractive with his short dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and God, that jawline.

Yes, he’s older. Late thirties, maybe.

Huge big daddy vibes as the kids would say.

The tiny lines flaring out from the corners of his eyes prove it when he frowns. Probably his permanent expression.

I don’t think I’ve seen him smile. Not that he had good reason to look happy last night, but he has a face that doesn’t seem like it remembers how.

Even when he’s standing in front of me in this slice of Missouri Eden, he looks like he just walked in after Goldilocks ate his porridge.

Scowly or not, he’s hotter than sin.

“Um, hi.” I tuck my hands behind my back just in case he hasn’t noticed the mud under my fingernails. Hopefully he hasn’t also noticed the fact that I wiped my face with those hands and probably have dirt smeared on my face.

“Hello,” he says curtly, still frowning. “Were you… weeding?”

Oh, good. He noticed.

“Not too much, your garden doesn’t need it. You keep this place up very well. I was just passing the time.”

“I see.” He pauses like he’s trying to remember why he’s here. “I’m Archer Rory, by the way.”

“Yes, I remember the name from your card…”

Archer, huh? Like the muscly men with bows and arrows in ancient times.

His name fits the old-timey vibes he gives off.

And the fact that the gaping age gap between us means he was probably born in the Viking age.

A silly image flashes in my head of him shirtless, streaked with blue paint, swinging an axe around over his head. I clap a hand over my mouth and bite back a giggle.

No, this modern man in his sharp suit and perfectly trimmed beard is about as far from wild warrior as you can get.

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