Page 3 of Matthew
It was peaceful.
Which meant something was about to go sideways.
He was halfway to the main building, ducking under a trellis draped in climbing roses when the full scope of the place came into view.
The nursery was bigger than he’d expected. Neat rows of greenhouses fanned out behind a modest shop building, the kind with a covered porch and a bell over the door. He spotted a kid answering phones on the side patio, a woman behind the register juggling customers, and two guys in work shirts talking with a man near mounds of mulch.
There were also trees, stone, and pavers. It was a landscaper’s paradise.
Efficient. Busy. And clearly well-run.
Compared to Annie’s chaotic backyard herb mission, this was practically a military operation, and he respected that. Every row was straight, every label visible, every plant thriving as if it knew better than to disappoint the woman in charge.
Matthew hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this level of dialed-in perfection. Whoever ran this place didn’t just grow things, she commanded them.
Then a voice snapped through the air, “You’re not my regular delivery guy.”
Matthew stopped and slowly turned around.
And there she was. Callie Morgan, no doubt.
Her hands were on her hips and her boots were planted in a patch of gravel as if she owned the earth under it and dared someone to disagree.
Curiosity and intrigue twisted his quick once-over into a more thorough assessment.
Pretty. Very pretty.
Average height, but she stood like she was taller. A sun-faded ball cap sat low over a medium-length brown ponytail. Her tank top was streaked with dirt, clinging in places that immediately tried to short-circuit his focus—most notably across a chest that didn’t need help grabbing attention.
And her skin? Damn.
Sun-kissed and glowing with the kind of quiet power that made a man thinkgoddess of agriculture…right up until she opened her mouth and a drill sergeant came out.
“What do you want?”
Matthew blinked.
Then grinned.
Well, hell, now he was even more intrigued.
He cocked his head. “I’m here on behalf of a woman with recuperating wrists and a taste for basil,” he replied, letting his voice dip into friendly. “Annie Winslow. She sent me to retrieve two trays of Thai basil. I come in peace.”
Callie narrowed her eyes, and for one sharp second, he could practically hear her flipping through an internal Rolodex of men she didn’t have time for.
He probably topped the list.
“You’re not from Mike’s Landscaping,” she said slowly.
“Nope.”
“You don’t work for the county, either.”
“Nope again.”
She folded her arms. “You don’t look like you know what Thai basil is.”
“Technically, I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’m told it has angry leaves and a superiority complex.”
