Page 6 of Matthew
Callie narrowed her eyes, but her lips twitched. “Depends. You always this curious, or is that reserved for women who hand you herbs?”
“Only the pretty ones who threaten to compost me.”
That earned a laugh she hadn’t meant to let loose and damn it, he noticed. The corner of his mouth lifted enough to flash the dimple he’d been hiding until now.
Sneaky bastard.
“I mean it,” he added, straightening but not backing away. “You run a tight operation. Impressive.”
She blinked. Compliments were fine. Backhanded ones she could shrug off, but this was sincere.
And unexpected.
“Thanks,” she said, after a beat.
“Anytime.” His voice dropped half an octave—pure trouble—as he leaned just slightly forward. “Next time, maybe I’ll come back for lavender. Or a cactus. Something dangerous.”
Callie arched a brow. “Try showing up without acting like you’re casing the joint, and I might let you leave without a chore list.”
He grinned again, slow and easy. “So, you’re saying there’ll be a next time.”
She rolled her eyes, backing toward the greenhouse. “Next time, you deal with my sister. She collects stray animals and people. And she hugs them all.”
He looked visibly alarmed. “Noted.”
But he was still watching her like he didn’t quite want to leave. Like she wasn’t just the woman who’d handed him basil, but someone he wouldn’t mind seeing again for reasons that had nothing to do with herbs.
Callie’s pulse kicked up, so she turned before she smiled and made a fool of herself.
She had work to do.
And no time to dwell on men with observant eyes, tactical reflexes, and the kind of voice that made a girl think dangerous things about greenhouse tables.
Callie ducked back into the greenhouse, her pulse annoyingly jumpy for a man who had shown up asking for herbs and left behind a dimple and the scent of cedar and trouble.
She set the empty tray on a side table, exhaled, and nearly tripped over a lazy pile of golden fluff.
“Sammy,” she muttered, smiling down at the golden retriever mix by her boot. “Where’ve you been? Nate spoiling you again? You’re supposed to be a working dog, not a fluffy mascot.”
Sammy thumped his tail once. Clearly, he disagreed.
She crouched to give his ears a scratch. “Bet he shared his breakfast sandwich too. Traitor.”
A voice drifted in from behind the shed. “Only half. He earned it.”
Callie stood, brushing dirt from her hands as Nate rounded the corner. Ball cap, tan work shirt, and the kind of calm energy that had steadied this place even before her dad got sick.
Nathan Porter had worked at Morgan Creek since she was in middle school. Her dad had hired him after a chance conversation at the feed store, something about Nate knowing his way around irrigation systems and not being afraid of early mornings. He’d been a steady presence ever since—part foreman, part plant whisperer, part honorary uncle. When her dad’s cancer took a turn, it was Nate who quietly took on more without being asked. Who showed up early and stayed late. Who stood beside her at the funeral without saying a word, offeringthat solid, grounding presence that never needed to be loud to matter.
She trusted him. More than that, she leaned on him. Not that she’d ever admit it out loud.
“You’re early,” she said.
He shrugged. “You’re always early. Figured I’d try to keep up.”
Nate leaned a hip against the edge of the potting bench, absently tossing a stray twig into the compost bin. “You know that dog’s been asleep near the back break area for over an hour. Didn’t even twitch when the mulch shipment rolled in.”
Callie narrowed her eyes at Sammy, who gave a half-hearted tail thump in response. “Freeloader.”
