Page 5 of The Bear's Blooming Mate

Instead, he crouched down, ran his fingers through the soil, and murmured, almost reverently, “This is good dirt.”

Elsbeth blinked. “Sorry?”

He looked up at her, a bit sheepishly. “The soil. It’s rich…dark, loamy. You’ve got good drainage here. But down there…” He pointed to the slope. “You’re right. That patch will need some terracing, maybe a French drain, to redirect runoff.”

She tilted her head, studying him more closely. “You sound different than I expected.”

His brow furrowed. “Expected?”

She chuckled. “I guess I pictured someone more…architectural.”

That drew the faintest smile from him, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh no, not at all.” She felt a flush creep up her neck. “I mean, you clearly know your stuff. And honestly, this is the kind of advice I need. Practical. Grounded.”

“Right,” he said, still sounding faintly stunned.

She couldn’t blame him, really. The property wasn’t much to look at yet. But he was kind enough not to say so, and instead gently brushed the dirt from his palms as he stood.

There was something endearing about him. A little awkward, maybe. A little…soft-spoken for a man with such broad shoulders.

She smiled, trying to shake off the faint flutter in her chest. “Would you like some lemonade before we go over the rest of the plans? We can sit at the table and I can show you my sketches…”

He opened his mouth like he was about to speak but then he snapped it shut and he turned his gaze toward the driveway.

A second car pulled up, dust trailing in its wake.

Elsbeth frowned. “Were you expecting someone else?”

The man beside her didn’t answer.

The new car door opened, and a man dressed in khakis and a windbreaker stepped out, waving as he jogged up the path.

“Elsbeth! Sorry, I’m late.”

She stared at him. Then at the man beside her. Then back again.

The puzzle pieces clicked together.

“Oh.” Elsbeth’s cheeks burned as realization sank in. She’d just spent the last fifteen minutes talking a mile a minute…to the wrong man.

Finn—theactualFinn—was striding toward them with an easy confidence. “Traffic was a nightmare,” he said, casting a questioning glance at the other guy. Whoever he was.

“That’s okay…” She turned to the man beside her. The one who’d crouched in her dirt, offered thoughtful advice, and listened with a distracted kind of gentleness. “You’re not Finn,” she whispered, almost more to herself than to him.

He cleared his throat. “No. I’m…I’m Philip.”

“Philip?” she repeated, eyes narrowing in confusion. Then she turned to Finn, who had finally reached them.

Finn stopped just short, giving her a slightly sheepish grin. “I, uh…think I might’ve sent you the wrong text, Philip.”

“You think?” Elsbeth echoed, trying not to laugh. Or cry. Her hands flailed lightly in exasperation. “I thought he was you.”

Finn pulled out his phone and scrolled, eyes widening a moment later. “Yep. I was putting the meeting in my calendar, and I sent it to Philip instead.” He winced and looked between the two of them. “Sorry, Elsbeth. Sorry, Philip.” Although the look he shot Philip lacked genuine remorse. In fact, there was something self-satisfied about it.

Philip rubbed the back of his neck, shifting awkwardly beside her. “No harm done.”

“No harm? I didn’t even let you get a word in edge-wise!” she said, flustered now. “I just kept talking like some over-caffeinated event planner.”

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