Page 92 of The Sweetest Devotion

He was right, but he was wrong, too.

I didn’t truly know him, but what I saw so far, I liked…a lot.

Keith was angry and quiet, but then the closer I got, I marveled at his gentle side, at his strength, at the way he loved his city enough to give back.

I wouldn’t tell him, but I liked the way he didn’t apologize when he was standing up to me. Calling me out on my brattiness.

It was ridiculously absurd to think about not being with a gentleman, but I liked that Keith didn’t sweep me off my feet and pamper me too much.

Fragile. To everyone else, I’d always been treated and seen as a princess. Handled with care and a delicateness as if I’d break. Not Keith.

“Thank you,” I told him, feeling myself smile and calm down. “Weeding isn’t so bad actually. I wish you had more flowers.”

Keith settled down as well. “Yeah?”

And then, because we’d already blurred that line, I spoke about my childhood. “When I was little, and my father had the time, he used to tend to his tulip garden. I used to hold his hand and walk beside him whenever he was taking a stroll for inspection.” Tears threatened to fall as I thought of the future. “Even though I’m so mad at him, someday, I’d like to have a house of my own and plant tulips in his honor.”

Keith was closer now, using his knuckle to catch a fallen tear. “What’s your favorite color of tulips?”

“White,” I confessed.

Somehow, Keith smiled a little. “Of course.”

I didn’t get it, but I didn’t care. I was just happy he was near.

I sniffled. Because I didn’t want everything to be about me, I asked, “Did you always like cars?”

The question triggered a soft smile to cross Keith’s face. He shook his head. “Not always.” He nodded off toward his flowerbed before us. “In a way, it’s like gardening. I got into gardening because my grandmother told me using my hands would better benefit me than resulting to anger. With cars, it’s sort of the same. I started helping out my uncle at his shop and it kept me busy and focused. And gradually I grew in love with the process of restoring cars, of bringing beauty to damaged goods. The patience it takes to get it there.”

All I could do was watch him with a smile, soaking in all his words and imagining him younger and angrier and finding himself as he went to work for his uncle and helped his grandmother with her garden.

Thank God for his family setting him straight and keeping him grounded.

“So,” he began, squinting at me curiously. “When does this get boring for you?”

A loud laugh bubbled out of me. I nudged him. “I could askyouthe same thing. When do you see yourself getting sick of me?”

Keith snorted. “Never.” His eyes fell to my outfit once more. “Every time I’m around you it’s an adventure.”

He liked my clothes.

The realization made me blush. “Same.”

Keith lifted his gaze to meet mine. “Most boring relationship?”

That was easy. “In college. He was a stockbroker. Very ‘yes, sir,’ and ‘yes, ma’am.’ Real polite.”

“Polite is boring?” Keith challenged.

I shrugged. “It can be.”

I couldn’t explain it, but Keith was polite and respectful with me, but then at times, he called me out, was more aggressive—and I loved it.

I cleared my throat and went back to weeding and needing to know more about him. “What’s your favorite football team?”

“Honestly? It’s the?—”

“Keith?”

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