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  I push away the thought of Megan that pops back into my head, for now anyhow.

  “Hey ya, Jason,” Tony calls out as he tosses dressing into a large bowl of salad. “Can you grab that bottle of apple juice out in the garage for the boys?”

  “Got it,” I reply.

  A second later, our transmitters sound off.

  “STAND BY FOR EMS TONE.”

  Tony and I stop still.

  The tones fill the room, followed by the call. “Respond to the intersection of High Street and Maxwell Avenue for a five-car accident. Injuries are reported on the scene.”

  In the hallway, the other firefighters pass, hustling out to the garage where their gear, boots, and overalls lay ready in front of the truck doors.

  Tony punches the button to turn off the oven. “Lasagna’s in there.” Then he, too, is gone.

  I’m manning the station for this call. I stand listening for other information. Our sirens on the fire and EMS truck blast as the guys pull out of the station. And then the place turns eerily quiet.

  I take the lasagna out of the oven. I’ll eat, and then wrap up the food for when the others get back. They may not return for two hours or more.

  The buzz of the back doorbell startles me. I remember Tony’s family. When I open the locked door, I see Elisa with Tony Jr. and little Nicky.

  “He’s out on call, isn’t he?” Elisa exhales the question on a sigh.

  I nod. A hollowness fills my chest. I hate this.

  Elisa’s shoulders sag, Tony Jr. stiffens, and little Nicky lets out a wail. “Daddy said I could do the gong for dinner!”

  My own brand of anguish thrashes inside my ribcage. I lost my mother when I was sixteen from a congenital heart disorder my brother and I didn’t know about. My father never recovered from the loss, to the extent that Aunt Dee, who lived three houses away, took my little brother to live with her. I gravitated there for meals and on weekends, too, to see my brother and to have some semblance of family. That’s how Aunt Dee and Uncle Pete’s house became more of a home than my own.

  I gaze down at the boys. For part of every week, these two little guys have a one-parent home.

  I crouch down. “How about a piggy back, Nicky?”

  Nicky climbs on, wrapping his skinny arms around my neck and his legs around my waist.

  “You can still be in charge of the gong,” I tell him. “Tony, how about if you serve the lasagna?” I wave my hand for the older boy to proceed ahead of us. “You know what you’re doing in the kitchen a lot better than I do.”

  Tony stands taller and takes the lead.

  The tightness in my chest lessens.

  Elisa studies the back of her oldest son then offers me a grateful smile.

  ****

  Megan

  On Wednesday, I’m mucking in the water again, cleaning the pond liner, when over my splashing I hear my name called.

  “Hey, Megan.”

  It’s him. Jason. A grin, foolish, I’m sure, splits my face. “Jason. How you doin’? Back for more pond supplies?” I groan inwardly. Great opening line. I hope he can figure out I’m glad he’s here, since I can’t flirt to save my life. Today he’s dressed in jeans and a green T-shirt, and he looks, if possible, better than I remember.

  He stops a few feet away, runs his fingers through his hair, and surveys the area. “My aunt likes the plant and says she might plant a couple more. Do you have any?”

  I point at a table behind the nearest pond. “Right there. On the corner are about five of them.” Something pops out from among the plants and arcs over the table to land and disappear among the rocks around the pond.

  Jason whips toward it.

  I grin. “That was a frog.”

  He takes a breath and settles his stance again, returning his attention to the plants. “I’ll find out how many she wants.” Then his gaze shifts, straight on to me.

  Bam, I feel it again. Alive. Alluring…even in my mud-spattered shorts. Magnetized in a field where he’s the center attraction.

  “Are you, ah, at a place you can take a break? Want to get some lunch?”

  I stand, my gloved pond-smelling hands at my side, as a delicious bliss curls up through my body. For a moment, I breathe in the sensations, the shining sun, him, me…us? Three minutes ago, I thought I’d never see him again.

  “Am I being too presumptuous?” He looks at me.

  His expression is guarded, like he’s admitted to a soft spot for little hopping frogs, but wants to appear tough nonetheless.

  “Are you, ah, in a relationship?”

  “Yea.” I nod, my expression serious.

  His gaze darkens.

  “With these fish. They expect me here every morning. For breakfast.”

  He waits a beat, his lips pressed together. “But it’s lunch time.”

  “I know.” I smile, a quieter smile than the happy surprise blooming through me would suggest. After the disaster that was my last relationship, I’m taking baby steps. I’m not ready to reveal much. “Which is why”—I pull off my cumbersome gloves and drop them in the bucket on my cart—“I’m cleaning up, and we’ll go have lunch.” I push the cart to the side of the shed. “Where shall we go?”

  He lifts his muscled shoulders in a shrug. “I usually go to Peggy’s Deli. That’s the only place I know here in Riverton. Where do you like to go?”

  “The deli’s great.” I live in Riverton, and the deli is very popular, with its inviting funky interior and generous sandwiches. And close enough to walk. “I’ll meet you out front in about five minutes?”

  I race in and down the short stairs to our employee lounge and lockers. Should I take down my hair? Or would that look like I’m unleashing my inner temptress? I take off my denim work shirt and wash my hands and arms up to the elbow. From my locker, I grab a clean T-shirt and change in the bathroom. Then I go for my tube of grapefruit hand cream and slather it on my hands, my arms, my neck, and, for good measure, up my cheeks and across my forehead. I don’t pack perfume, but this cream has a delightful scent that will be a definite improvement over pond water. I decide to take down my hair, brush it, and put it back up in a neater ponytail. Then I’m racing back up the stairs, my stomach a jitter.

  Ridge Road has no sidewalk, and the land alongside is uneven and littered with scrub brush. Jason places himself between me and the cars. Talking over the traffic is difficult, not only because of the noise, but because we both step off the narrow shoulder when a car is coming and dodging the brush requires attention. I manage to get some details about his aunt’s reaction to the plant, and how the pond system is operating with the new kit. His aunt lives in San Moreno about fifteen miles away; Jason lives and works in Bradley Park, two towns west of here.

  The sun is warm, and since I’ve half-suffocated myself with skin cream, I’m in danger of again breaking an unattractive sweat. I’m glad for the air conditioning in Peggy’s.

  Peggy is long-gone. Her daughter Maggie, not in her infancy either, now rules the place, lording over the counter activity in her trademark leathery tan, her white blond-from-a-bottle long hair, and her too-tight, low-neck knit shells, like she’s channeling Donatella Versace, only there’s twice as much of her. Her eyes nearly bug out of her head when she sees me enter with Jason.

  That I’m with someone at all? Or that he looks like he does? I don’t want to find out. I like Maggie, but she’s got no filter.

  She beelines toward her prime counter position.

  I wave hello, and then steer right toward the seating area where we can get table service.

  We sit in the back at a small wooden table painted in an orange-and-turquoise checkerboard pattern.

  Moments later, a waitress delivers laminated card menus.

  “What do you like?” Jason asks, studying the menu.

  “I can’t decide whether to order The Gobbler or The PC Paisano.”

  Jason’s forehead wrinkles. “PC Paisano?”

  “Yea. Maggie, the current owner, has h
er own brand of humor. The PC is for Politically Correct. It’s a No-Kill sandwich. Vegetarian. Organic. Eggplant parmigiana on whole wheat bread with organic mozzarella.”

  Jason raises his eyebrows, nodding. “Okay. Do you, ah, want to order both, and we can split them?”

  I blink, my mouth dropping open. He’s a splitter? Men hate to split meals. And if I was thick enough not to pick this up from my own limited experience, Sara has informed me of this fact on numerous occasions. It’s how she rationalizes spending money to go out for lunch at work, because she has someone—me—who will pay for half.

  I LOVE to split. “Really?” I ask. “Do you really want to?”

  He looks up toward the waitress a few tables away, and then back down at the menu.

  A tell if I ever saw one.

  “That would be fine.”

  “But…” I lean forward. “You would rather have…

  He draws in a breath. “My choice is not PC. The Smokin’ Hot Pastrami? Would that bother you? To be at a table with that?”

  I burst out laughing. “Not at all. I’ll go with The Gobbler to keep you company.”

  “You aren’t vegetarian?”

  “No. I don’t eat a lot of meat, but I eat it when I have a craving.”

  “I noticed the chicken coop where you work. I didn’t know…”

  “If I would eat poultry? Because of Chester, Arthur, Violet, Petunia, and Poppy?”

  “Yea, I guess. Are those the chickens’ names?”

  “And roosters, yes. Plus Duke and Daisy, the goats. They keep the kids occupied while the parents shop.”

  Most of us nursery employees are pretty besotted with the animals. But I push thoughts of Violet and her friends out of my mind since I told him I’d order The Gobbler. Jason is saved from responding to an illogical logic that allows me to be quite fond of our nursery poultry, but eat a turkey sandwich. We order, and I realize, as usual, I’m quite hungry. Working outside does that. “Do you cook, Jason?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I can boil spaghetti. Make garlic bread. My aunt’s the cook.”

  “What does she like to cook?”

  He grins, his eyes alight. “She’s a D’Annucci, too, like me. My father’s sister. She cooks Italian. Really good Italian.” He tips his head. “How about you, Megan? Would you have an Irish last name to go with the first?”

  “I do. Megan Donovan. With a sister Kelly, and a brother Sean.”

  “They live around here?”

  “No. They live in Washington, where I grew up. Around Seattle. It’s far, but I get home at least once or twice a year.”

  “How did you end up in southern California?”

  “I went to Cal Polytech for horticulture and discovered most of the other students all came from family businesses. They already knew way more than I would learn from college classes. My roommate had a family nursery outside of San Diego, so my third summer, I came down here to work.” I drag my water glass across the table. “That’s when I discovered water gardening, and I never left. My parents weren’t happy I didn’t finish my degree. I’m the odd duck in my family. But I’m doing what I want, so they’ve adjusted.”

  Jason reaches over the table and takes my hand in his.

  Much as I try scrubbing at the dirt, my nails are almost never 100% clean, and I’ve got a long scratch across my knuckles. And anyhow, in the middle of a work day, that’s part of who I am.

  He turns my hand palm up and runs his finger across the calluses.

  My heart skitters a beat at the feel of his hands cradling mine. His touch exudes caring. Imagining him tending a person in distress is easy.

  Need I say it? I like the feel of him touching me. The world is charmingly in order right here, right now. But what is he doing? “Is something wrong with my hand?”

  “Every time I see you, you’re in the water. And you’re the odd duck. I was just seeing”—he turns his head to examine my palm, his carved cheeks in profile—“if there’s a web between your fingers…”

  Bemusement laces his tone. “Like a Labrador retriever?” I retort, stifling the urge to flex my fingers; I don’t want him to let my hand go.

  He laughs and releases my hand. “My favorite animal. But a dog? No. That’s not what you bring to mind.”

  His grin is so open, so easy, I decide to divulge something I’ve never told anyone. “I did wish for scales when I was younger. I thought it would be cool to be a mermaid.” He takes me in for a beat, his gaze deep.

  “I can see that.”

  His voice is low and velvety. I draw in a ragged breath.

  And our sandwiches arrive.

  I level my breathing. We both dig in.

  He tells me about the side business he runs with one of the other firefighters. They install in-ground sprinkler systems. Now fixing his aunt’s pond makes a lot of sense. We share French fries. I ordered sweet potato, and he went for traditional. We have none of that first date awkwardness…because I think that’s what this is. A first date. A really, really good first date.

  I refuse dessert, and he insists on paying the bill. We pass back out into the deli section, and my gaze roams to the glass-covered plate of chocolate-covered macaroon.

  He’s watching me. “You do want dessert,” he chortles. He makes a move toward the counter.

  I put my hand on his arm to stop him, which feels perfectly natural. “I’m fine.”

  He twists away, placing his hand on the curve of my back to propel me forward.

  His body is now close. I inhale his distinctive fresh scent and stifle a sigh. Using our hands to communicate doesn’t feel forward, or forced…just right, like we belong operating in tandem.

  “Come on, Megan. This is one of the perks of having an active job. Dessert!”

  “Megan!” Maggie booms out. “How was your lunch?”

  You would swear Jason’s name was Megan the way she’s staring at him. “I’m over here, Maggie.” I wave.

  Jason snorts out a chuckle.

  “Lunch was good. As always.”

  She whips her gaze to me, beaming. Flashing her white polished nails, she swivels the huge glass jar of pastel candy conversation hearts forward on the counter. “Play our Valentine’s Day contest! Guess how many hearts are in the jar.” She waggles dark, well-penciled eyebrows. “You might win a free lunch.” She focuses on Jason. “For two.”

  Jason steps to the counter, like a swaggering cowboy to the saloon bar, and he cocks his head. Narrowing his gaze, he studies the jar.

  I watch him. “Are you counting?” A note of incredulousness sounds in my voice.

  “Shhhh,” he answers me back, intent.

  Maggie’s delight is so uncontainable she can’t stand still. She’s Shuffling Off To Buffalo back there on her linoleum floor.

  A minute later, Jason picks up one of the slips of paper and a pencil, scribbles his answer, and drops the paper into the pink heart-shaped contest box.

  “So how many?” I ask.

  Jason shoots a sideways pretend glare. “I can’t tell you. Not until you come up with your own guess.”

  I hate these contests. Counting and figuring never gets me anywhere close. Sara tells me to connect with my intuition, like the ability is a charm I put on my necklace and I’m good to go. I take a deep breath and let a number come into my head. I write it down and slip my entry through the box slot. “There.”

  Maggie floats on air down the counter to top off the coffee of one of her regulars.

  Jason grins.

  I give him a self-conscious smile back. I’m not accustomed to enjoying such simple, silly fun.

  Jason buys two of the macaroons from the young man behind the counter, who offers a reverent thank you when Jason puts his change in the man’s college tip jar.

  Maybe “love” isn’t in the air, but something has us all swaddled in well-being. Valentine’s Day?

  Jason hands me the brown bag with Peggy’s orange logo.

  “You need to take one.” I go to open t
he bag.

  But he covers my hand with his. “They’re for you. My aunt makes more desserts than I need.” He pats his stomach.

  His washboard stomach.

  “Have one now, and have one for later.”

  Back at the nursery, I realize I’ve taken a long lunch break. I didn’t even notice the passage of time. I’ll be at this next client’s house through dinner.

  I turn to him in the parking lot, shifting my weight. I huff out a quick breath, edgy about being seen with Jason. I don’t want my coworkers to tarnish this time with him by teasing me all week. “Thank you,” I tell him. “This was a really nice surprise.”

  He acknowledges with a nod. “How about dinner next time?”

  I melt, and it’s not the heat. “I’d like that.” I smile. My breath catches in my throat.

  “How about Saturday?” he asks, his eyebrows arching.

  I shake my head. “I’m driving to Santa Monica. Bachelorette party for a woman who worked here.” I pause. “I’m not back until later on Sunday.” This is actually good. I appear like I have a social life, which I don’t. Do I offer another night, or is that too forward? I firm my jaw. I’m not letting him slip away again. “How about Friday?”

  He grimaces, slides his phone out of his pocket, and takes a couple swipes. “I’m working. And I’m not done until 6:00 at the earliest. Is 8:00 okay?”

  “Yes. That’s okay.” Exuberance fills my throat to bursting. Date two, already!

  “Where would you like to go?” he asks, taking his keys from his pocket.

  “Do you have a restaurant you like in Bradley Park?”

  “Trattoria,” he answers without hesitation.

  “How ’bout if I meet you there at 8:00?” Why did I offer that? Because at the thought of taking this next step again, I’ve unleashed a plague-worthy swarm of butterflies in my gut.

  He tips his head.

  Almost imperceptibly, but I see it. I’m sure he planned to pick me up. “That will give you more time.”

  He nods, his expression still neutral. “Okay. I’ll make the reservation. Shall we exchange numbers, just in case?”