Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

J ackson

Well, shit, this is weird. I was sure the house was empty. The gate was padlocked. Except, I didn't notice this morning that the gates were open—my observation skills are rubbish. I'd make a very poor burglar. But getting caught? That was pretty embarrassing. Luca was nice about it though—he could have ordered me out. I can't believe I've been wandering round the gardens of Frances Winterton. I thought they looked familiar, though I've only seen them in books and magazines. I did a project on garden design at college and used the gardens at Larchdown House as inspiration. No wonder the name sounded familiar to me when I first heard it. I'd love to see more of the gardens, so I hope Luca will let me explore them further. He's an odd guy. He appeared sad for some reason, but he makes really great coffee.

The next morning I rise early. I didn't sleep well. I've no idea why, but the encounter at the house kept playing through my head. Maybe it's best that I leave and find somewhere else for my plants, though I'd rather not. Darla told me last night that Olivia's back today. I knew the job wouldn't last long, but I still have to pay some of my van repairs off. Darla still wants my help at the May Day fete on Monday, but after that I need to find something else.

I glance up at Larchdown House as I drive past the gates. It looks slightly more alive, though it needs some maintenance. I wonder if Luca is serious about selling it. It would be a shame, but it needs an owner who appreciates it. What did he say he was? An artist? Or was an artist? He was not happy to talk about that, but I don't blame him—I don't want to talk about my past, either.

It's a pleasant surprise when Luca shows up at the greenhouse—I'm genuinely surprised. I'm sure he has better things to do, though I'm very pleased he brought coffee with him.

"Ah, my hero," I say when I take the mug from him. For a second, he lights up with a dazzling smile. It's an image of genuine joy and vulnerability. But just as quickly, it's gone, and a mantle of resigned sadness settles on him again. It feels like a cloud's passed over the sun, and I somehow want to see it shine again.

He jumps up to sit on the bench beside me, but says nothing. He just sits there, black hair falling over his face as he keeps his head down. I'm not good at small talk—I usually work alone. I've spent so much time alone, and I like it that way. I'm comfortable spending hours by myself. It isn't that I want him to leave, but it is rather awkward, or it's starting to feel that way. The way he's watching me, or rather watching my hands tending to the plants, is disconcerting—it's beginning to feel weird. I need to say something, but I don't want to talk about myself, and I get that he has secrets too.

"What was she like?" I watch in my peripheral vision as he drags his eyes up from my hands to my face. I'm careful not to look straight at him.

"Uh?" This guy is worse at small talk than I am.

I turn to address him. His gentian blue eyes are softer than they were yesterday, and the fact that I notice his eye colour confuses me. I can't remember what colour Natasha's are.

"Your Aunt, what was she like?"

He smiles, a thoughtful memory perhaps.

"She was kind, she was funny, and smart. She accepted me for who I am and encouraged me to follow my dreams. She was the only one who believed in me."

"Did you get involved in the garden?"

"Not really. I don't think I had an aptitude for it, but I used to spend all my school holidays here, and then lived here for a few years." It sounds a little pained, like the truth is too much to give. I don't push. He can tell me or not, it's up to him. It's none of my business. He sinks into a reverie again, thankfully not looking at my hands this time.

He's looking at his own hands, which are worrying a thread on the cuff of his hoodie. I can hear him breathing, like he's struggling a little bit. It's speeding up and his hands become more agitated, like he wants to pull his cuff apart—this isn't good. I don't know what to do, but I feel I need to reach out somehow.

"Luca?" He ignores me, or maybe he doesn't hear me. I try again.

"Luca?" His breathing becomes more laboured. Shit! It sounds like he's going to hyperventilate. I put my hand over both of his, trying to still them, and grab his shoulder with my other hand, squeezing to get his attention.

"Luca?" I say, softer this time. His hands stop, and he raises his face. His breathing slows, but his expression's completely blank except for his eyes—they're dark and bottomless.

"Are you alright?"

I see him swallow, and he takes a minute to answer.

"Yes. Um, yes, I'm fine." Then his face becomes guarded, like he's snapped on a mask, his eyes now warily shining out through it. I step back, dropping my hands to my sides. He looks at them, frowning.

I'm pretty sure he isn't alright. I want to ask again, but it'll sound pushy, and I don't know this guy—we only met yesterday. I seriously don't know what to do next. Perhaps he just needs some space—perhaps he needs a hug. As well as not being good at small talk, I'm no good at big talk either, and this feels big. Really big. Oh well, there's only one thing to do.

"Um, I could use a coffee?"

His mask drops, and a flicker of relief follows the ghost of a smile that appears on his face.

"Then I'll make you one. Will you come up to the house?"

"I just have a couple more jobs to finish. Can you give me five and I'll be there?"

He nods, jumps off the bench and gathers up the mugs, before heading up the path.

When he's out of sight, I blow out a breath. Well that was intense, whatever it was. I have no idea—except it was awkward. Well, it's still not my business. I finish up and follow the path he took. I really hope, though, that he won't now decide to ask me to leave.

When I enter the kitchen, he's at the coffee machine and has his back to me. As he turns around, I can see the mask is back in place. I wonder if it's a self preservation mechanism? It saddens me that he feels wary around me, but I figure he doesn't know me any more than I know him.

"Um, thank you for back there," he says, putting a mug down on the central island that separates us. I have no idea what I did. I decide to tell him that.

"I'm not sure what I did."

"I was about to have a panic attack—I get them sometimes." He turns his face away like he can't look at me to admit it, but he does turn back, which I think is brave. "You stopped me, thank you."

"They don't sound like fun."

"Definitely not fun," he sighs.

"I honestly didn't know what to do. I didn't know whether to walk away or hug you."

"A hug would have been nice," he says with a half-smile, and a glint in his dark-ocean eyes.

"Well, next time I'll know what to do." I find myself drawn to his smile, but distract myself with a swig of coffee—it's really wonderful coffee.

Neither of us speaks for a while. It's awkward again. No small talk—too intense for big talk. I finish my coffee and place the mug down.

"Thanks for the coffee. I'll be off now." I turn to go.

"There was something else," he calls out.

Shit, this is where he asks me to leave. I turn back around and see he's biting his bottom lip slightly. It looks like a nervous trait and it distracts me—a lot.

"Would you like a job?"

"A job?" I'm aware I sound stupid—I feel stupid—I have no idea what he means. My brain is geared up to go looking for somewhere to rent.

"The garden." He gestures towards the window. "It needs a lot of work and I can't do it. I wouldn't even know where to start."

I hesitate. My plan was to start a nursery, working for myself. I'd worked for people before and that had got me nothing but trouble, and a divorce. Yes, I'm currently working for Darla, but that's different. It's temporary, as needs must. But it's also ending in a couple of days, and I still have the rest of the van money to repay. And this was Frances Winterton's garden. The opportunity to work in it isn't an everyday occurrence. I assume Luca wants it tidied, to prepare it for sale. That would be sad, but I can do it, and I can make myself some startup money for my nursery. In the end, I don't hesitate for long.

"Yes, I would like that."

His relief seems tangible.