Page 8 of His to Cherish
“Hi.”
Aidan didn’t say anything. His eyes stayed on my dead shrubs.
“Can I help you?” I asked when several seconds passed in strained silence.
I’d lived in this neighborhood for five years. I knew that Dr. Hammill next door liked to barbecue on the weekends and sometimes early in the morning when he’d finish an overnight shift at the hospital. I knew his wife of thirty years thought he was crazy for doing it, based on the loving barbs they threw at each other through the open window when he was grilling at six o’clock in the morning.
I knew that Kate across the street from me worked at a bakery in town, because Trina had helped her with marketing when she opened last fall. She served the most amazing bagels and cupcakes. I stopped there almost every day on my way to work for an Asiago cheese bagel. She always had one bagged and ready for me. And I knew that her husband worked at an insurance company downtown and came home promptly every day at five o’clock in the evening, when they ate dinner before taking their lab, Midnight, for a two-mile walk.
What I didn’t know was why Aidan was standing in my driveway, staring at my shrubs like he wanted to rip them out of the ground with his bare hands.
His presence ruffled me and a nervous tingle slid down my spine. Or maybe it was the sweat.
“This is a big project,” he finally said.
I looked from him to my yard.
My shrubs and landscaping wrapped around my front porch and then continued in gentle curves along the front of my ranch house. At the corner, it dipped out around a clump of birch trees that added height to the house. When my mulch was delivered tomorrow, it would take me at least one weekend to move it, if not more. Not to mention all the shrubs I wanted to replant.
“It is.” I nodded and bent down to grab my shovel. I didn’t know what I was doing, but just like when Shane stopped by the library, I sensed he needed something. So I let him have it. “Know how to dig a hole?”
I turned and watched a brief twitch at one edge of his lips. It looked like it could possibly…maybe…be the early workings of a smile.
He pushed off the truck and walked into my yard, dropping his tan leather tool belt onto the ground.
A soft and husky “Yeah” fell from his lips as he reached me. “I know how to dig a hole.”
When he got close I saw the devastation in his eyes. His skin was tight. His facial hair, which had been slightly scruffy at the hospital but completely clean at the wake, was full grown and thick. His inky-black hair looked like his fingers had been running through it all day long.
And his shoulders were slumped forward as if he needed a nap—one that lasted a month.
An ache clenched my heart and I had to struggle not to gasp as he took the shovel from me.
“Okay, then.” I clapped my hands together and pointed out three other shrubs I had to remove.
While Aidan went to work, I focused on pulling weeds from around the birch clump in order to give him some space.
We worked for over an hour in silence except for his occasional slight grunts as he dug out the evergreens.
My back and thighs ached from squatting and pulling weeds. The skin on my fingers was raw, and more than once I caught myself gazing at—or more like ogling—Aidan’s backside as his muscles flexed and tightened while he worked. I didn’t know if his jeans were made just for his body, but they fit him perfectly. Tight in all the right places.
Every time I noticed I was practically drooling over the hardworking man I closed my eyes, shook my head, and forced myself back to the project at hand.
As soon as he had the shrubs pulled out, I stood and once again pointlessly tried to wipe the caked-on dirt off my hands.
He stood, grabbed his previously discarded tool belt, and stared at his truck.
I moved toward him, watching him struggle with something while he stared at the truck but made no effort to leave, and I offered, “I was going to grill steak tonight, if you want some dinner.”
His head jerked and he looked at my front door, back to his truck, and then he shifted on his feet, turning to look at me.
“You have more than one steak?”
I nodded. “I always cook two. The second one I use for fajitas, but you can have it if you’re hungry. Feeding you is the least I can do.”
I meant for the help with the yard, but I regretted the words as soon as I said them.
His shoulders tensed and he scowled. I thought he was going to leave.
