Life According to Lucy

She stifled a yawn and risked a peek at Greg. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t a total geek. He hadn’t given her too hard a time about yesterday. At least not yet. And he did have nice hair and bronzed muscles and all…He looked up and caught her staring. She fought back a blush. “Do you always start work so early?”

He shrugged. “You said it was an emergency.”

“Well, yeah. It’s my mom’s roses. They’re dying.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I called you.” She was easily annoyed in the morning. Especially when she was operating on only four hours sleep. “Or rather, I called your dad.” She frowned at him. “Do you know anything about roses?”

He stood, towering over her. “I know everything about roses.”

She bit back a groan. Lord save her from arrogant men!

GREG FOLLOWED Lucy out into the backyard. She wasn’t exactly what he’d expected from Barb Lake’s daughter. Barb had been the stereotypical suburban housewife, in sweater sets and khakis. Her daughter looked like she’d stepped out of the pages of some hip fashion mag. Or rather, she looked like a model who’d slept in her clothes. She’d obviously just rolled out of bed. The thought sent a kaleidoscope of erotic images whirling through his brain.

He focused on her cute little bottom as she picked her way along the garden path. She was acting all bent out of shape because he had shown up instead of his dad, but he figured it was mostly a face-saving move, considering the last time he’d seen her she’d been literally tossed out on the curb.

He dragged his gaze away from her to study the yard. Sun glared off the oyster-shell paths and heat radiated off the fence boards. The thermometer on the wall showed eighty-two degrees.

Then his gaze landed on the roses and his stomach twisted. The bushes looked as if they’d been attacked by locusts. The canes drooped and drifts of yellow leaves decorated the mulch. Barb must be turning over in her grave. The old man was probably spinning right along with her. He moved closer and broke off a remaining leaf and examined it, then dug down into the mulch with his fingers. Lucy fidgeted beside him, like a patient waiting to hear the worst.

He moved to another bush, and then another, shaking his head and making clucking noises under his tongue. This was bad. Really bad.

“Well? What’s wrong?” Lucy blurted.

He straightened and turned to her. “More like what isn’t? You’ve got black spot, aphids, powdery mildew, root rot and rust.” He ticked the maladies off on his fingers.

She blinked at the pathetic plants, her mouth trembling. He braced himself for tears. Did he have a clean handkerchief anywhere?

“Can’t you do something?” she asked.

He looked at the roses again and sighed. “Maybe. It’ll take a lot of work.” Just what he needed. More work.

“That’s okay.”

Sure. A babe like her probably had a social life. “Um, what I meant to say is it will take a lot of my work.”

“Oh.” She traced a dollar sign in the oyster shell with the toe of her sandal. “Are you expensive?”

“I can be.” He grinned, unable to resist adding, “But then, I’m very good.”

She jerked her head up to stare at him and he gave her a lazy, half smile. Maybe trying to resuscitate Barb Lake’s roses wouldn’t be such a hardship. Especially if he could talk her daughter into working with him.

A noise in the bushes distracted them both. That little dog of hers was digging furiously in one of the beds. “Looks like the pup’s ready to get started,” he said.

“Hey! Get out of there!” She lunged and the dog darted away.

“What are you going to call her?” Greg asked.

She brushed aside the shower of leaves that had drifted onto her arms and shoulders when she’d gone after the dog. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

“You found her in the garden. It ought to be something to do with gardening. How about Rose?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Rose doesn’t sound like a dog’s name.”

He looked around, seeking inspiration on the shelves outside the potting shed. Ortho—no. Daconil—He didn’t think so. Mille fleur fertilizer…He grinned. “How about Millie?”

She looked down at the dog. “I think I like it. What do you think, Millie?”

The dog’s ears drooped and she let out a low growl.

“I don’t think she likes it,” Greg said.

“Well, I do.” She scooped the dog into her arms. “From now on, I’m calling her Millie.”

He glanced around the garden again. “I’ll have a crew out on Monday.”

“Can’t you start today?”

He shook his head. “I have other jobs. This is going to take some time.” Although he didn’t know how much time the roses had left.

“What can I do to help?” she asked.

“You can pull all the mulch away.” He gestured to the beds. “We’ll need to dig out everything, put in new soil, prune, spray, fertilize….”

Her shoulders drooped and she cuddled Millie closer. “Uh, okay. I guess we’ll wait until Monday then.”

He grinned. “I’ll see you then.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll probably be at work.”

He thought he did a pretty good job of hiding his disappointment. “Where do you work?”

“Here and there.” She waved her hand in the air. “I’m between jobs right now, so I’m doing temp work until I find something in my field.”

“That must be interesting.”

“It’s not. Most of it bores me out of my mind, but it pays the bills. Some of them, anyway.” She glanced back toward the house. “It’ll be good for me to stay here a while, to, uh, help out my dad, you know.”

“Yeah.” He’d moved back home the last few months of his father’s life. It had been a strangely disorienting experience, but one he didn’t regret.

They stood there for a moment, alternately looking at each other and the half-dead garden. Even disheveled with no makeup, she was beautiful. She had short, spiky dark hair and big green eyes with long dark lashes and delicate features. Not a conventional beauty maybe, but she definitely stirred something in him.

“Well…uh, I’d better let you be going,” she said finally. She took a step back toward the house. “See you around.”

“Yeah. See you.”

She let him out the back gate. He made himself walk to his truck without looking back, but he was sure he felt her gaze on him. When he reached the truck, he risked a glance in her direction. She was still there at the gate, the dog in her arms, a pensive look on her face, as if she was trying to figure him out.