The Things We Leave Unfinished Yarros, Rebecca (reading like a writer .TXT) 📖

Her attention shifted from the rosebush to the vase. “Yes. Right after I got back from Murano. I spent a summer apprenticing there after freshman year.”

“Wow. It’s remarkable.” How did someone capable of doing that just stop? And what kind of man married a woman with that kind of fire and then systematically snuffed it out?

“Thanks. I love that one.” A wistful look crossed her face.

“Do you miss it? Sculpting?”

“Lately.” She nodded. “I found the perfect space for a studio, but I can’t justify the cost.”

“You should. I’m sure you’d have no trouble selling pieces. Hell, I’d be your first customer.”

Her gaze jumped to mine, and there it was again, the indescribable connection that kept me up at night, thinking about her. “I should put this in the greenhouse.”

“I’ll come with,” I offered, swallowing back the ball of nerves that had worked its way up my throat like I was sixteen again.

“Okay.” She led me through the kitchen and out the back door, but instead of heading straight into the garden, she turned left, walking me along the patio to the greenhouse.

The blast of humidity was almost enough to make me homesick as I followed her into the glass building. Both the size and variety of flowers in here were impressive. The floor was cobblestoned moss rock, and there was even a small fountain in the center, blocking out any potential noises from the outside world with the steady trickle of water.

“Do you maintain this yourself?” I asked as she carried the rosebush to a potting bench.

“God, no.” She snorted. “I might know a thing or two about plants, but Gran was the gardener. I hired a professional about five years ago when she finally started to slow down.”

“At ninety-five,” I added.

“She was pretty unstoppable.” Her smile was instant and had the added bonus of acting like a vise around my chest. “She got so mad at me, too. Said I was making assumptions about her health. I argued that I was simply freeing up the time it took her to water.”

“You were making assumptions about her health.” The corners of my lips tugged upward.

“She was ninety-five; can you blame me?” She set the rosebush down on the bench. “I’ll pot it later.”

“I don’t mind waiting.” Or delaying what I was about to offer her. Somehow Georgia had mastered what college and deadlines had failed to do: she’d turned me into a procrastinator.

“You sure?”

“Positive. And I’m the last person to tell you about rosebushes, but I thought this guy was more of an outdoor one?” At least that was what the picture online had shown.

“Well, yeah, usually. But it’s almost October. I’d hate to stick him in the ground and hope for the best when his little root system wouldn’t have had a chance to develop before the first frost.” She opened the large cabinet next to the shed and hauled out a container and a various assortment of small bags.

“So you’re saying it’s a bad gift?” I half teased. Shit. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

Her cheeks pinkened. “No, I’m saying it has to live in the greenhouse until spring.”

“Can I help?”

“You don’t mind getting dirty?” She took in my athletic pants and long-sleeved Mets tee.

“I prefer dirty.” I shrugged with a grin.

“Grab the potting soil.” She rolled her eyes as she rolled up her sleeves.

I pushed my sleeves up and walked over to the cabinet, which was much deeper than it initially looked. There were at least three different bags along the bottom.

“Which one?”

“The one that says ‘potting soil.’”

“They all say ‘potting soil.’” I met her teasing gaze with a raised eyebrow.

She leaned around my side, brushing against my arm as she pointed to the blue bag on the left. “That one, please.”

We locked eyes, and the inches between us charged. She was close enough to kiss—not that I was going to do something that reckless, but damn did I want to.

“Got it.” My gaze dropped to her lips.

“Thanks.” She stepped away as color flushed from her neck to her cheeks. She wasn’t immune to me, either, but I’d known that from the second our eyes met in the bookstore. It didn’t mean she wanted to act on it.

I grabbed the right bag, then ripped the top open and poured it into the container when she told me to.

“That’s perfect.” She stepped in and added handfuls from the various smaller bags, then mixed it all together.

“This feels very complicated.” It was fascinating to watch her pick and choose from the soil amendments.

“It’s not,” she said with a shrug, using her bare hands to plant the rosebush. “Plants are way easier than people. If you know what plant you’re working with, then you know what pH it likes the soil to be. If it likes it well drained, or saturated. If it prefers nitrogen or needs a calcium boost. Does it like full sun? Part sun? Shade? Plants tell you what they need right off the bat, and if you give it to them, they grow. They’re predicable that way.” She leveled the soil out carefully, then washed her hands at the potting bench sink.

“People can be predictable, too.” I hefted the now half-empty bag back to the shed. “If you know how someone was damaged, you have a good idea of how they’ll react in a situation.”

“True, but how often do you know someone’s damage before you start that relationship? It’s not like we all walk around with warning labels on our foreheads.”

I leaned back against the bench as she filled the watering can. “I like that idea. Warning—narcissist. Warning—impulsive. Warning—listens to Nickelback.”

She laughed, and an ache flared in my chest, demanding to hear the sound again. “What would yours read?” she asked.

“You first.”

“Hmm…” She shut off the faucet, then lifted and tipped the watering can over the rosebush. “Warning—trust issues.” She lifted a brow at me.

That made perfect sense.

“Warning—always right.”

She scoffed, finishing up with the can.

“I’m serious. I have a really hard time admitting I’m