Page 15 of Two Steps Ahead

So far, there had been no sign of trouble here. Weston almost felt bad for how much Leo was paying him, since all he was really doing was working with the land and enjoying Kayleigh’s company.

“I know it’s not my job, but I love digging around in the dirt.” She beamed up at him from where she was kneeling in the soil. “And I do a lot more of it than you think as a nature photographer.”

He knew all about her career. Had for years. Probably more than was healthy, and definitely more than he planned to share with her. “I’m glad you found something you love to do.”

She looked back down at the blue flag iris she was planting. “I’m pretty sure my career can be traced back to that summer with you and Mr. Henry. It’s where my love for plants started, although the photography came later.”

“For me too. I’ll always be thankful for the time I had with Henry. Definitely started my love affair with plants.”

She let out a sigh, touching the bright purple flowers in front of her. “I think I like plants more than people sometimes. They can be so resilient even while some look so fragile.”

He couldn’t stop his smile. “I’d choose hands in the dirt than hanging out with people any day.”

They both worked in silence for a few minutes.

“I like being outside. Sometimes being inside is...”

He waited for her to finish, but she didn’t. He twisted to look at her around the shrub he was trimming. “Being inside is what?”

Her sigh was soft and a little heartbreaking. “Being inside is hard for me.”

“How so?”

She paused for so long, he didn’t think she was going to answer. She waited until she’d put the roots of the iris in the dirt and began covering them up before finally responding. “Being inside...sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“Like claustrophobia?”

“Yeah, but not exactly. Something happened when I was younger and...” She looked away. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

He left the shrub and walked over to her, pulling off his glove. He touched the smooth skin of her arm. “You don’t have to talk about it. I understand not wanting to talk about the past, believe me. Although I’m here if you want to.”

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

“Tell me about Indonesia then. That was your last photography assignment, right?”

She gave him a relieved smile and they both got back to work. For the next few hours, she talked about Asia, then another trip she’d made recently to Iceland, and some others in America. He knew about a lot of them, but wasn’t going to tell her that—what would she think if she could see the scrapbook he’d made of the photoshoots she’d done? He’d tracked her career for years from afar, never dreaming she would remember him at all.

She was talking about her Iceland trip and nature’s resilience as evidenced by the plants she was shooting, growing in hardened lava, when she stopped suddenly.

“What?” he asked. Her insights had been intriguing, her passion obvious. Nothing about what she’d been saying had suggested it was difficult for her to talk about. “Is this hard to talk about too?”

She let out a wry laugh. “No, not at all. I stopped because this can’t be interesting for you. I’ve been talking nonstop for hours. Aren’t you bored?”

“Absolutely not. You were talking about tillandsia and its remarkable ability to grow under the harshest of circumstances. How can that not be interesting?”

Of course, he was pretty sure she could read the phone book and it would be interesting.

She shook her head, sitting back in the dirt, grabbing a sip of water from the bottle. “It’s just like when we were kids. I’m doing all the talking. You can’t get a word in edgewise. It must be frustrating.”

The opposite. Her voice, her words, were soothing to him. “I like to listen. I’ve always liked to listen more than talk.” Especially to her.

“Are you sure?”

“Believe me, yes.” He’d be willing to listen to her voice all day every day. It eased something in him. Always had.

But he did his best to try to talk more the rest of the afternoon. Asked questions, interjected comments and even told a few brief stories of his own. He was about to call it quits for the day, so they could go put together dinner like they had for the past three nights, when a sudden storm blew up on them.

The rain covered like a blanket, soaking them within just a few seconds. Laughing, Weston grabbed their tools, and they ran for the gardener’s cabin. Thunder shuddered in the air around them and the evening sky turned much darker.

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