Growing Season

GROWING SEASON

BACK THEN

Dahlia

S nip. Snip. Snip!

I glance at the camera that watches the east side garden, wondering what the hell that sound is. It's too loud to be a rabbit, and if a deer has somehow managed to jump our new eight-foot fence, I'll have to let him enjoy a few blooms before kicking him out.

Snipppp. Snippp. Snip.

The camera rotates, revealing a Central High School varsity sweatshirt and…Everett Anderson.

He's the most popular guy at my high school, and as much as I want to act like his cocky self doesn't deserve it, he does.

It's hard to look at his perfectly structured face without getting turned on, without envisioning what his full lips would feel like pressed against mine.

He keeps his ink-black hair short, but he always let a tendril fall over his left eye. His dimples deepen whenever he smiles, and whenever someone gets close enough—which I never do—his grey and blue irises could probably take their breath away.

I snap out of the trance with another "Snipppp!"

What the hell is he doing?

He cuts sunflower stems, and then he moves to another row, aiming his scissors at the neck of a red rose.

Rushing out of the house, I run down past the vegetables and catch him red-handed.

"Why are you trespassing here, Everett Anderson?" I exaggerate every syllable in his name.

"Dahlia?" He looks up, smiling at me as if this is some type of joke. "Aren't you supposed to wear a shirt under overalls?"

"It's laundry day."

"Good to know." He glances at my blue bra, and I make a mental note to always wear a shirt from here on out. "Am I bothering you?"

"Yes, and this is private property." I pick up a nearby pitchfork and aim it at his head. "Get off or else."

"Or else what ?"

I make a stabbing motion with the pitchfork, and he laughs.

"If it's alright with you, Psycho ," he says, "I'm picking some flowers for a bouquet, since my dad is coming home to visit me today."

"You mean, you're stealing ?"

"Borrowing. I told your mom I'd pay her back when I get paid next week."

I eye him as he plucks a few more roses, wondering why my mother didn't mention this arrangement to me. Then again, she gives away flowers to high schoolers pretty often, so I shouldn't be surprised.

"Why does your dad need flowers?" I ask. "Wouldn't he prefer a tree or some specialty grass?"

"He's a clothing designer," he says. "He gets inspired by flowers."

"Don't get those then." I drop the pitchfork. "I'll show you where the best ones are."

"You've decided to be nice to me now?"

"Only because I've also decided that you're going to pay my mom back by helping me pull weeds."

"Deal." He stands to his feet. "How hard is it?"

"You'll see…" I motion for him to follow me through our cutting station.

"Can I tell you something personal, Dahlia?" he says from behind.

"No."

"I've always thought you were the prettiest girl at our school."

I stop walking and look over my shoulder. "What's your angle, Mr. Popular?"

"No angle." His smile could probably end wars. "I've had a crush on you since?—"

"You broke up with Ashley Yardley? Then Maria Jenkins? Or was it before or after you were with Chelsea Tatum?"

"First of all, I was never in relationships with any of those girls. It was purely physical."

"Be still my beating heart."

"I've tried to talk to you plenty of times, but you tend to growl at any guy who comes near you."

"No, I don't."

"You damn near decapitated me for touching a flower today."

"Stealing a flower."

"That justifies a potential murder?"

I turn around and resume walking.

When we reach my favorite blooms, I stop and point.

"These are a far better choice for anyone who needs inspiration. When it comes to bouquets, everybody typically goes for the basic reds and pinks but…I think these are the best. You should throw some tulips in as well since they only bloom for like a few weeks a year. That kind of makes them exclusive."

"Thank you," he says. "I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome." I pull a brown sheet of paper from my pocket and wait for him to cut a few before wrapping them.

"Can I tell you something, Everett?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"Despite the fact that you're cocky as hell and you think every girl likes you, I've always thought you were the most attractive guy at our school."

"Good to know." He smiles. "Thank you."

"You can meet me right here to handle the weeds tomorrow morning." I step back before I can get lost in his eyes. "Bye."

Later that afternoon

E verett steps in front of me when I'm knee-deep in a leaf pile.

"Are you back to steal more flowers?" I ask.

"No." He shakes his head. "My dad had something come up so, I gave the bouquet to my mom and just sent him a picture of it. Do you feel like showing me how to weed today?"

"You're not really dressed for that." I cross my arms. "Want to come back in a long-sleeved T-shirt?"

"Nah, I'm okay." He pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a set of glistening abs.

"Where do you want me?"

"In a long-sleeved T-shirt."

"How else will you appreciate the view I'm giving you?"

"You can't be serious…"

"Of course, I am."

I blush, and he grabs my hands, pulling me out of the pile.

"I saw some shirts in your mom's merch shop," he says.

"You want to steal that, too?"

"He's not stealing anything, Dahlia!" My mom shouts from a few rows over. "And he's clearly here to spend some time with you, so be nice to him."

"Exactly." He tucks a stray curl behind my ear. "Be nice to me."

"I'm not looking for a boyfriend." The words fall from my lips. "And I don't care that you're attractive. This is hard work, and you need to focus and never touch me again."

As if he doesn't believe a word I've just said, he tugs at a different curl of mine, and before I can reiterate my empty threat, he presses his mouth against mine.

Within seconds, I'm surrendering to his kiss, setting aside all the sarcastic weapons I'd planned to fire.

His tongue slips past my lips, signaling that this won't be a chaste moment.

This won't be a light kiss…

He slips an arm around my waist, pulling me taut against his bare chest. Staring deep into my eyes, he teases my bottom lip with a bite before forcing my tongue to tango with his.

Dominant and primal, he whispers, "You really don't want me to touch you again?"

His question is rhetorical, only asked to pause the sweet assault of my mouth.

When I'm nearly breathless and when my knees are seconds away from buckling, he pulls away.

Smirking, he stares at me while I lean against a pole and catch my breath.

I don't even bother trying to act like I didn't enjoy it. Like I don't want more.

He smiles as if he knows, but doesn't mention it.

"Show me how to pull the weeds," he says instead.

I demonstrate it for him, and he catches on with ease. By evening, we've finished half an acre, far more than I expected.

I thank him and tell him that I'll see him at school on Monday, but I see him a lot sooner.

He returns on Saturday morning, dressed to help.

He comes back every day after that, too…