Page 19 of Edge of Ruin
“Of course. There’s a jack in your kitchen, but it’s my phone line. I assumed, considering your security problem, you weren’t going to want to list a number right now. You mind sharing a line with me? I don’t spend much time hanging on the phone.”
“Me neither,” I said swiftly. “That’s fine with me, if it’s okay with you.”
“If you want to use your cell, hike up to the top of that rise,” he said. “See that stand of spruce? You’ll get some coverage up there. But for now, use my phone. Hook your computer up in the kitchen.”
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“I meant to get you a phone. You weren’t supposed to arrive so soon.” He gazed at me accusingly through the stalks of columbine.
“Yeah, right. Don’t you want to go and put those down somewhere?”
“Yeah, and then I’m going to make coffee. Come in and have a cup.”
I watched, fascinated, as he walked across the yard toward a small building. The back view of his jeans was as appealing as the front. I forced myself to exhale slowly.
Inside his cozy kitchen once again, I gazed at trays of seedlings while he put on the coffee. When he sat down at the table across from me, I gave in to my curiosity.
“Duncan said you grow flowers,” I ventured. “Margaret, too.”
Jack stroked the bottom of a delicate leaf in one of the trays. It trembled above the forest of thin, delicate pale stems, as if floating there. “Yes. I’ve got some Aquilegia flavescens, and Delphinium exaltatum, and Dianthus barbatus coming in right now. I’m taking a load into Portland today.”
“What’s that in English?” I asked.
“Columbines, larkspurs, and sweet william,” he clarified.
I sneaked a quick peek at his somber profile. “Why do you use Latin names?”
“I like how specific it is,” he said. “There are hundreds of subgroups for common flower names. Each one has its own totally different personality.”
“Wow,” I murmured, impressed.
He looked self-conscious. “I don’t mean to be a nerd. I got off on studying them when I was in the military. Nothing like staring at flowers when you’re sweating in the desert with sand rasping in every crack under your body armor.”
“Wow,” I said. “Like dreaming of water while you’re dying of thirst.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
He was standing so close to me now, I could smell the loamy scent of plants and earth on him, although his hands smelled like lemon dish soap. “You’re, um, staring at my Eranthis hylematis, Jack,” I said, in a warning tone. “It’s making me nervous.”
“Sorry,” he murmured. “And it’s Eranthis hyemalis, not hylematis.”
Whoa. That hot, flirtatious energy was starting to stretch and twist between us, muscular and dangerous and unpredictable.
I had to distract us, before things got weird. “How’d you get into this business?”
“I like plants,” he said. “My uncle Freddie was into organic gardening when I was a kid. I studied plant biology on the Internet when I was in the service, and afterward, too, when I worked overseas.”
“In Afghanistan? On that task force with Duncan, right?”
“Right. I’ve also done some landscaping work for the parks department in Portland and Vancouver, too. Ornamental horticulture, stuff like that. But I prefer to live out here. I’ve built up a good business. The land down by the river’s good for rare specialty stuff, and I know florists who are happy to buy local and get stock that’s days fresher than the flowers they fly in over the pole from Holland. I’ve got a refrigerated truck and a twelve-by-twelve walk-in cooler. I harvest and deliver them myself. Simple, direct, and it works out well for everybody.”
“What an awesome way to make a living,” I said.
“It’s hard work. But I like the flowers.” He turned his silver-gray gaze on my face. “Did you sleep well on the futon?”
“Yes, wonderfully. Thank you. That’s another thing I want to do, is get myself a mattress so I can get your futon and pillows back to me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Use them for as long as you like.”
