“This,” Ben said, “is Tinker. And you should feel privileged. He’s given you quite an honor. He doesn’t usually take to people he doesn’t know very well.”
As he said the words, the cat sprung from his arms to hers. She caught him with an exclamation of surprise.
“Warn me, next time, will you, kitty?” She tucked Tinker under her chin, oddly comforted by the vibration of the cat’s purr and the warmth of his fur.
“I never had a kitten,” she said, stroking Tinker’s soft, downy fur. “Or a dog. My mom was one of those people who thought all animals should stay outside in the barn.”
Another hiccup.
Ben jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels, not speaking but urging her on with a smile.
“I had a hamster once, though, when I was about nine. Alvin the hamster. He’d run on his little wheel all night long. That sound was like a lullaby to me. I slept so soundly when he was around.”
“Tinker is a second-generation Atwood cat,” Ben explained, reaching out to tickle Tinker under his chin. “His mama was Belle. Tinkerbelle, actually, but most of the time I just called her Belle.”
“Oh, my,” exclaimed Vee, putting two and two together. “Please don’t tell me that this poor boy...”
“...is Tinkerbelle the Second. In my defense, I was a teenager at the time, and kittens weren’t a big deal to me. I was too busy worrying about my social life, which...well...” He cut himself off and gave her a charming smile. She noticed it looked a little strained around the edges, as if he disliked thinking back on those memories but was trying to hide it. “I gave him his moniker without actually bothering to see if it was a he or she, and my mother didn’t correct me. I think maybe she was trying to teach me a life lesson. Tinker here got the bad end of that deal.”
“Poor Tinker,” Vee said on a long, counterfeit sigh, stroking the cat from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, causing his purr to rumble even louder. “It’s a wonder he still associates with you at all.”
“Yeah,” Ben agreed with a self-deprecating shrug. “You’re probably right about that.”
Tinker started wiggling, and Vee reluctantly released him to the ground. “I think Tinker is giving me a nudge. I suppose I’ve had enough of a work break now. Your parents aren’t paying me to talk. I should get back to planting flowers.”
She turned, then paused, her shoulders tensing as she realized she’d returned to a touchy subject for Ben. Was he going to belittle her efforts again—tell her once more how little he valued all her careful planning and design work? She shouldn’t have been surprised that he had no appreciation for her craft, yet she had still felt hurt at his clear dismissal earlier.
“Where would you like me to start digging?” Ben asked, surprising her when he reached for a nearby shovel.
Vee released a quiet breath. Gardening was her comfort zone, her sweet spot where she could let go of everything else and just be thankful to God for His beautiful creation. Some might see it as just “digging in the dirt,” but for her, working with flowers brought Vee her greatest joy.
Did she want to share that with Ben?
Not really. But if putting him to work meant he’d stop giving his mother a hard time, then what choice did she have? Maybe if he could see how dedicated she was to the task, he’d realize that her work truly was important—to her, if not to him.
She pointed to the flower beds on opposite sides of the screened-in back fence, and then at the large plot she’d lined out with stakes and thread marking a place for the garden.
“If you’d please break up and turn the earth for me, I’d appreciate it. I’ll bring you a bag of compost so you can fertilize as you go.”
“I’ll get it,” he offered. “It’s in the back of your truck, right?”
“Yes, it is.” She hesitated. “I hate to have you make two trips, but can you also bring back some potting soil for me? I brought new annuals, mostly petunias and mums, to plant in the hanging pots.”
Ben assented with a nod and strode away. Vee’s gaze followed him until he turned the corner of the house. Then she propped her hands on her hips and surveyed the property, ticking off projects in her mind. The flower beds would be the home to a dozen new rosebushes, and the garden still needed to be seeded with vegetables. Several decorative pots for the back porch awaited her attention, too.
Now, where had she been before Ben arrived?
Oh, right. The hanging basket. Falling into Ben’s arms. How could she have forgotten that so easily? It was not her most graceful moment. Her face flamed just thinking about it, so she redirected her thoughts to the tasks at hand.
She was gathering a variety of hanging and standing flowerpots into a line on the porch when Ben returned to the backyard, a twenty-five-pound bag of potting soil under one arm and a fifty-pound bag of fertilizer slung over his other shoulder. She hadn’t expected him to bring both bags at the same time. He was probably trying to show off his strength, but the gesture was lost on Vee.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t quite lost because she’d obviously noticed. It was hard not to notice the solid muscles across his arms and shoulders. But a good man was made up of more than his muscles, and she knew what kind of man Ben was.
Ben had broken her best friend’s heart. Olivia had stayed in bed for a week depressed and crying over their breakup, which was all Ben’s fault. Vee wasn’t in any hurry to forgive him for that, no matter how good he looked in a T-shirt and jeans.
“Where do you want it?” Ben asked. He nodded his square chin toward the bag of soil under his arm.
“Right here is fine,” she answered, sweeping her arm indistinctly toward the ground at her feet.
Grunting with the effort—or possibly just for the effect the sound gave—he dropped the bag of potting soil where she’d indicated and then lowered the fertilizer bag near the closest flower bed.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d do the flower beds first,” she said, deciding there was no reason not to be civil with Ben since he’d offered to help—as a non-paid apprentice. “I’ve got a dozen rosebushes in the back of the truck that I’ll be planting in those beds today.”
“Yeah, I noticed them when I was getting the soil. Do you want me to bring those back here for you, too?”
“Eventually. For now, just dig.”
“Pink and red,” he said, sounding like he was just making conversation. “Did you pick out those colors, or was it my mother?”
“Your mother, actually. I’ve planned most of the landscaping colors palette, but she specifically asked for red and pink roses. Red for love. Pink for gratitude. She said it would remind her every day to be thankful for her family.”
“That sounds like my mother,” Ben murmured.
“I’ll get these planters finished and then we’ll worry about the rosebushes. After that you can turn the earth for the garden and I can start seeding behind you,” she said, pulling on her gardening gloves and picking up a trowel.
She reached for the first tray of yellow mums and easily fell into her task. She’d organized the flowers and seeds according to the layout print she’d prepared of the Atwoods’ backyard. She’d spent a long time planning what would go where according to the palettes she’d created. She loved seeing the way the colors came together to make a final product she could be proud of and the Atwoods would enjoy. It was her artist’s canvas, available for everyone to see and appreciate.
Ben let out a low wolf whistle as he surveyed her print. She hadn’t realized he was standing over her shoulder. He was supposed