Page 8 of Heart Beats

The bell chimes again. Persistent, thisfriend. Though I already know I won’t answer, I tap my phone to view the doorbell camera. My bottom lip drops, followed by the chef’s knife I’m holding, and I shriek as its sharp point misses my bare foot by a hair’s width.

The next thing I know, there’s a tattooed rock star plastered to the window above my kitchen sink. Given the height of the window, and the fact that there’s a prolific shrub rose growing beneath it, I’m not sure whether to be impressed or concerned.

“Jagger—” I say, pushing up to my tiptoes and leaning as far over the sink as possible. “You’re stuck to the side of my house like Spiderman. How did you even get up there?”

“I hopped the front garden when I heard you scream. Are you okay?”

“I dropped a knife, and it almost pierced my bare foot, but I’m fine.”

His auburn brows draw together over blue eyes that don’t stray from my face. A mega-famous rock star traveled to my town, to my house, and literally scaled a wall to get to me. What world am I even in right now?

“Wait,” I say, peering up and down the street. “Am I on one of those reaction-based reality shows with hidden cameras? Is this a setup for some docu-film about surprising fans, or your wild lifestyle? Because I hate being centered out. Or watched. Or surprised.”

“No reality show or crew, just me, realizing I’m really fucking this up.”

“Fucking what up? Wall climbing? You’re doing a great job of that. I’m amazed by how well you’re hanging on.”

A grin stretches across his handsome face. “At least my grip strength impresses you, since I’ve done everything you hate in my attempt to get you on a date.”

Acknowledging his declaration intelligently or flirtatiously isn’t happening, so I do what any socially awkward, totally shellshocked woman would do in this situation—I ignore it. “Get down from there and come inside before everyone in town starts messaging me aboutthisJagger Marsh encounter, and I have to change my number.” I grab the cord for the mini-blinds and tug, cutting off communication and the view by dropping a wall of white in his face. But I can hear him. His deliciously low, sexy laugh, along with the rustle of leaves and snapping boughs.

My house is a small, raised bungalow. It only takes seconds to reach the central front door, and when I open it, Jagger is there. He’s wearing the same black, button-front shirt from the pictures Mya sent. The sleeves are rolled almost to the elbows. If he’s scratched up from his foray into my garden, I can’t tell. All I can see is his endless ink.

“Sorry about your flowers,” he says, offering a single pink bloom on a short stem. “If you give me the name of a local landscape company, I’ll call them on Monday and hire them to replace whatever’s damaged.”

“Did you really wreck my rose bush?” My first instinct is to push past him so I can inspect my garden. This is why I’m single. Awkward women who care more about their shrubbery thana handsome rock star standing on their doorstepare destined to own cats, not diamond rings and lingerie.

“Just a couple of broken branches.” With the hand not holding the rose, he hooks a thumb toward the area in question. “Want to come out and check?”

“No, it’s fine.”Normal. Just be normal.I flap a hand and roll my eyes as if the suggestion is ridiculous. More like, ridiculously on point. I should enjoy this once-in-a-lifetimes moment while I can. Once Jagger realizes I’m wired to be an awkward introvert, he’s going to put as much distance between him and my precious rose bush as possible.

“You really want to go and look at it, don’t you?” he asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement and… affection? His smile broadens when I nod. Then he steps closer, sending sparks rippling through me as he gently tucks the rose behind my ear. “Then let’s go check.”

Speechless, I tag along at his side until we’re standing in front of my marginally worse-for-wear old shrub rose. “You must think I’m crazy,” I say. “I’m sure every other female fan you’ve chosen to surprise has just invited you in to have sex straightaway, without having to check the state of their garden first.”

He’s smiling so wide when he turns to face me, it looks as if he might burst into laughter at any second.

“I literally meant garden, not vagina. Though I would hope they checked the state of their lady garden before having sex.” By the time I finish my latest that-should-have-stayed-in-my-head statement, my cheeks are on fire. “I’m really terrible at this.”

“Looking at roses?” he asks, giving a wink.

“I’mgreatat that. Plants are easy company. Non-judgmental. As long as you tend to their basic, consistent needs, they’re happy to harmoniously co-exist.”

His silent attention wraps around me like a weight that’s equal parts comfortable and overwhelming.

“Anyway, Delores here looks fine. I’ll prune her tomorrow and you don’t need to call anyone to help me.” I can feel my palms getting clammy, but he doesn’t release my hand when I try pulling free.

“You give your plants names?” If he’s mocking me, I can’t tell. There’s no hint of it in his tone or expression.

So, I answer him as if the question is genuine. As if an ultra-famous, super-sexy rock star legitimately wants to know my peculiar gardening habits. “Not all of them. I named this shrub after my grandmother because I transplanted it from her garden. And that’s probably more than enough boring conversation for you. Would you like to leave, or go inside and have sex?”

“Neither,” he says, choking on a laugh. “Nothing about you is boring, and I didn’t come here to have sex.”

“Then… what do you want from me?”

“Everything. I think I want everything.”

four

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