Page 51 of Love is an Open Book
“The proper attire.” His gaze sweeps down my front, lingering on my bare legs in a way that reminds me of how his fingers skated over my thighs in the greenhouse. “Nothing we can do about your legs unless—”
“I’m not wearing your pants. Or any of your other clothes, for that matter.” I squat down and tug a box toward me from under the table. Aha. I pull out a pair of cotton gloves triumphantly. He takes them and tosses them back in.
Handing me the pair from atop the pile he’s holding, he says, “I keep extras in my truck.” Next, he sets a sun hat on my head, disentangling the string from around my ears. “It’s hard to make these look fashionable, but you’re totally pulling it off.” One corner of his mouth twitches.
“Hilarious. Are you happy now?”
He shakes his head and holds out the last item of clothing. A long-sleeve T-shirt.
“It’s ninety degrees. I’m not wearing that.”
“Barely eighty, and I would’ve offered it to you before but...”
“But you thought I’d be stubborn as always?”
A half grin appears, crinkling his eyes. “That, and I didn’t want to rain on your parade. You clearly put so much thought into your outfit.” He glances at my boots, and his lips turn down in a slight grimace.
“What’s wrong with these?”
“Nothing. But did you break them in?”
“I planned to. I was going to walk to the coffee shop in them the other day but I got caught up writing.” Suddenly this all feels so silly. Me, here, when I’d be better off donating like I’ve done every other year. If this is how fish-out-of-water feels, it’s freaking embarrassing, not romantic.
Gavin steps closer, close enough for me to feel his heat, except this time I’m not concerned about sweat, because my senses are full ofhim—the midday sun glinting off his golden-brown hair, the smattering of freckles joined by flecks of potting soil along his cheekbones. His lips, a rosy shade of pink, shoulders filling out his own shirt in a way I do my best not to notice, but when I drop my eyes, it’s not much help. His work boots are plenty broken in, the leather scuffed, laces worn.
“You don’t have to get everything right the first time.” He’s talking about today, but all I can think of is the book, the only manuscript I’ve left unfinished.
“Being sweet isn’t going to get me to put on another layer. It’s like a hundred degrees out here.” The forecast said low eighties, but then again, I’m used to enjoying hot summer days from the brisk air-conditioning of the great indoors.
“Sweet? Me?” I’m not used to the way his cocky smile is making my heart flutter—normally it would just give me the urge to double down in our debate. “Would someone sweet commit breaking and entering on behalf of a total stranger?”
“Yes, you goofball,” I tell him. “That’s pretty much the definition of a sweetheart.” He’s the kind of man who donates to every GoFundMe that pops up on his feed without doing hours of research like me, who calls all his friends and relatives on their birthdays, even if they haven’t seen each other in years. He’s not trying to rub it in that I’m making newbie mistakes. He’s just looking out for me, like he always does.
It feels strangely intimate to slip on his gloves, flexing my fingers and trying not to think about the imprint of his fingertips on mine. But I draw the line at taking his shirt. I’m sweating already; adding another layer would do me in.
“You’re not covered up, either.” I gesture at his bare forearms—tan, toned, and dusted with golden hair that just looks more ruggedly attractive thanks to a sheen of sweat.
He yanks down the sleeves bunched at his elbows, a reverse of all the times I’ve written a hero undoing his cuffs, and yet the result is the same. The brusque gesture, full of restrained strength, has me imagining how much I’d like to use his sturdy arms as leverage to rise on my tiptoes and kiss him, just once, so I can get it off my mind.
Instead, I yank off my hat, shake the wrinkled shirt out with a quick snap, and tug it over my head. The sleeves dangle over my hands outrageously, and Gavin laughs, not bothering to smother it.
I stretch out my arms to demonstrate how huge it is on me. My fingertips are barely visible. “Happy?”
“Incredibly.” He catches hold and cuffs the sleeves in two deft rolls. I could do it myself, but being fussed over is doing a lot to ease the sting of how awkward this afternoon has felt.
“Thank you, I guess.” I scrunch my face into a grumpy expression, fighting a smile.
His dimple makes another appearance. “You’re welcome, I guess.”
We’re back to yanking weeds, this time tackling the giant patch at the back of the lot. The stems are covered in prickers, and I have to admit Gavin was right. With my hands and arms covered, I’m itchy, but at least I haven’t gotten any more scratches. Another one of Gavin’s coworkers, Morris, is helping, too.
He lifts his ball cap to run a bandanna over his head, the sheen of sweat on his scalp visible through his buzz cut. “If you think Riley’s family chat is bonkers, you should see mine. Nothing but hamster photos. Let me tell you, waking up to a rodent’s face is not my idea of a good time. Got so fed up that I set up a social media account for the damn hamster just so my brother would quit spamming us.”
I grab hold of a weed near the base. “Does he have many followers?”
“Thousands,” he says. “But he didn’t at first, so I gave him a pity follow. Now my algorithm is screwed and my feed is nothing but pet videos.”
“Big softy,” Riley says, and reaches over to rub his head, which sends a shower of dirt along his shoulders, and he sputters as clumps fall over his face.
