All They Need

chapter THREE



THREE WEEKS LATER, Mel stooped to wrap her arms around the hessian-covered root ball of the orange tree she’d excavated from her front yard. She’d pruned the branches and dug the roots out in stages, giving the tree time to adjust to the brutal surgery she was practicing. But now it was time to haul it to its new home. She felt a little like the horticultural equivalent of Atilla the Hun in uprooting the tree from its old home, but this was a necessary evil—it had been badly sited by the previous owners and would never thrive or even bear fruit in its current position.

Once she was confident she had a reliable grip, Mel flexed her legs and attempted to lift the tree onto the waiting wheelbarrow. As she’d half expected, the tree barely budged, despite giving it her all. Between the weight of the tree and the amount of dirt and clay contained in the root ball, it was bloody heavy. She might have rugby league shoulders, but she wasn’t a miracle worker.

She sat back on her heels and looked up at the shiny green foliage towering over her. She was tempted to call her father or brother to ask them to lend a hand, but she didn’t want them to feel as though she only called when she needed something.

Which meant it was time to move on to Plan B. Not that she was a hundred-percent certain it would work, either. But what the hey.

She headed to the house—the canvas drop sheet she was looking for was in the spare room. After she’d grabbed it and was on her way outside, she glanced into the living room. The clock on the mantel told her it was ten, which meant she had an hour until Flynn Randall was due to check in. Plenty of time to do what needed to be done.

She still couldn’t quite believe he was coming to stay with her again. He’d called on Wednesday and she’d been so surprised to hear his voice it had taken her an embarrassingly long time to respond to his greeting. After his last stay—or, more accurately, his nonstay—she’d thought she would never hear from him again. Even though he’d said the accommodation had been fine and she’d been inclined to believe him, his visit couldn’t exactly have been called successful.

Yet he’d made another booking, and she’d been feeling nervous and on edge ever since she’d marked the reservation in her diary. Which was genuinely pathetic given that she’d long since sifted through her reaction to his last visit and come to the depressing conclusion the reason he put her on edge was because of who he was—a Randall.

Old habits died hard, apparently.

She was determined to get over the anxiety this time around. He was a man, he put his pants on one leg at a time, and she would respond to him as she would any other man. If it killed her. The same went for his girlfriend. They were people, and they were guests, and that was it. They weren’t any more special than anyone else she played host to.

The drop sheet snapped open as she spread it across the lawn. As she’d hoped, the orange tree was a few inches shorter than the length of the tarp. She positioned it at the most advantageous point, then braced her legs and rocked the root ball from side to side, “walking” it onto the canvas. As gently as possible she tipped the tree onto its side. She gathered up the corners closest to the root ball and bunched them together into a big wad. Then she took a step backward, using her body weight and her grip on the drop sheet to drag the tree across the lawn behind her.

By the time she got to the driveway her arms and thighs were burning. She put her chin down and kept hauling, making her slow way along the side of the house and onto the rear lawn. She stopped to peel off her sweater, wiped her hands down the sides of her jeans, then picked up the corners and put her back into round two, trying not to think of how much farther she had to go before she reached the new site she’d prepared.

“Are you all right there? You look like you could use a hand.”

Her head snapped around. Surprised, her grip on the drop sheet loosened as she hauled backward and she fell onto her ass with a painful thud—all while staring straight into the very blue eyes of Flynn Randall.

Her pride urged her to immediately scramble to her feet but her tailbone was vibrating with pain and it was all she could do not to groan out loud.

“Are you okay?” He strode to her side and held out his hand to help her up.

“Fortunately, the ground broke my fall.”

He smiled faintly at her attempt at bravado. She could feel embarrassed heat flooding into her face and she reached up to grab his hand, keen to not be on her ass at his feet for a second longer than she needed to be. His firm hand closed around hers, and she rose to her feet almost effortlessly.

He was a big man, but she was a big woman. Clearly, he was packing some serious muscle under his butter-soft leather jacket.

“That’s a lot of tree you’re hauling there.”

“It’s not as heavy as it looks,” she lied.

He lifted an eyebrow and she knew he wasn’t buying her claim. Her backside was still aching and she desperately wanted to rub it. Instead, she put on her professional hat. Not the easiest thing to do with mud splashed up the legs of her oldest jeans and her butt throbbing.

“If you give me a few minutes, I’ll clean up and grab the keys to Tea Cutter Cottage for you.”

“What about your tree?”

“It’s not going anywhere.”

“That was kind of my point.” He surveyed the yard. “Where are you taking it?”

“I’ve dug a new site at the bottom of the property.”

She didn’t go into detail—Flynn would hardly want to hear about her plans for a fruit orchard and a vegetable garden that would eventually feed not only her but her guests—if they chose—as well as her family.

“You’re going to kill yourself getting it down there.”

Her eyes widened as he started pulling his jacket off.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“But—but you’ll get all dirty.”

Her gaze took in his expensive-looking brown leather boots, his designer jeans and the black sweater he was wearing.



“I don’t mind.” He threw his jacket onto the grass nearby, then tugged his sweater over his head and tossed it on top. He was wearing a dark gray T-shirt underneath. It looked as though it was made of silk, which probably meant it was.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t let you ruin your clothes.”

“A little dirt never hurt anyone.”

He examined the tree for a beat. “The drop sheet was a good idea.” He stooped and grabbed the wad of canvas she’d been dragging, separating the corners out and offering her one. “Shall we?”

“No. No way.”

“If you don’t help me out, I’ll have to try to equal your Herculean solo effort and risk embarrassing myself if I fall short.”

She stared at him, utterly thrown by his offer and his apparently genuine desire to help her out.

“Okay. If that’s the way it has to be,” he said with a shrug. He bunched the two corners together again and started to pull the tree forward.

“Stop,” Mel said, moving to block his path.

He grinned and offered her a corner of the drop sheet again. She took it with a frown, which only seemed to amuse him even more.

“Thank you.” It came out a little grudgingly and she cleared her throat. “I really appreciate your help.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

She darted him a skeptical look but he didn’t look as though he was merely obeying the dictates of some masculine code of honor. He looked thoroughly in his element, as though this really was his pleasure.

Which was just plain strange, given who he was.

“On the count of three?” he said.



She took up the slack on her corner, and on his signal began to heave on the drop sheet. The difference in effort required was profound and she almost fell on her backside again.

“You okay?”

“Yes. I wasn’t expecting it to be this much easier.”

“I have a feeling I should probably be insulted by that. Do I look that anemic?”

It took her a moment to realize he was joking. She smiled uncertainly. “You don’t look anemic at all.”

He didn’t say anything but he continued to seem quietly amused as they dragged the tree down the lawn, across the garden path, behind Tea Cutter Cottage and through a gap in the screening trees to the large clearing she’d chosen for her fledgling orchard. Although covered with patchy grass, it had never had a real purpose or design—until now.

She directed him toward the shovel she’d left sticking out of a mound of dirt to the left of the clearing. They came to a halt beside the hole she’d dug that morning.

“Thanks for that,” she said, already turning to lead him to the main house so she could get him settled in.

“How are you going to get it in the hole?”

She paused. “The same way I got it out.”

Which had been through sheer determination and not a little swearing. But he didn’t need to know that.

“Come on, let’s do this.” He knelt beside the tree and began untying the twine she’d used to keep the hessian covering in place.

She stared at his down-turned head, baffled by his determination to be helpful despite the obvious risk to his clothes and his complete lack of obligation to her. He was her guest, after all. She was supposed to be at his beck and call, not the other way around.

“I’ve done this a few times over the years, but it’s always a bit heart-in-your-mouth, waiting to see if you’ve done more harm than good,” he said as he tugged at the twine. “It drives me crazy when people plant trees where they think they will look pretty rather than where they’ll grow well. A sixty-second conversation with someone in a garden center would have told them that citrus sinensis need sunlight, the more the better. How hard is it to ask the right questions if you don’t already know the answers?”

He glanced up at her to gauge her reaction and suddenly it hit her.

“You’re a gardener.”

The amused look was back in his eyes again. “You say that like it’s a miracle. Or at least about as likely as Bigfoot being real.”

“Sorry. It’s just not what I expected.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Let me guess. You had me pegged for a polo player, right? Maybe a yachtsman?” He spoke with an exaggerated British accent.

She smiled before she could catch herself. “Something like that.”

“My mother is a keen gardener. She recruited me as her slave when I was a kid, and I’ve been getting my hands dirty ever since.”

Mel dropped to her knees and pulled her penknife from her pocket, making short work of the knots he’d been tugging at without much success. He gave her a wry look and she shrugged apologetically.

He turned to inspect the hole she’d dug before glancing at her in an assessing way. “Would it offend you if I offered some advice?”



“I guess it depends on what it is.”

“The hole isn’t big enough. You want the soil around the roots to be a little loose and aerated, so the tree can grow new feeder roots easily.”

“You’re lucky I don’t slap your face,” she said, deadpan.

She immediately felt a dart of alarm. She’d always been a bit of a smart-ass—impossible not to be growing up with a father and a brother who took no prisoners when it came to teasing and pranks—but her quick tongue had consistently gotten her in trouble with her ex. Owen had hated it when she said something provocative or racy or pithy. He’d wanted her to be discreet and elegant and sophisticated, not mouthy and cheeky.

She waited for Flynn to signal that she’d overstepped the mark with her off-the-cuff response. Waited for the friendly smile to fall from his lips or for his blue eyes to turn cold. But he simply smiled at her appreciatively before pushing himself to his feet.

“I was wondering where your sense of humor had gotten to.”

She stared at him as he pulled the shovel from the mound of dirt. “Excuse me?”

“Your sense of humor. You always used to make me laugh.”

Her lips twisted. She knew what this was about. “You mean because I jumped in the fountain at the Hollands’ party?”

Flynn had started to dig, widening and deepening the hole, but he stopped to consider her. Almost as though he understood exactly how brightly that incident burned in her memory.

“I was under the impression that you fell in. And I didn’t think it was particularly funny until you took your bow. Hamish Greggs was an idiot for letting go of you. I hope he groveled at your feet the next day.”

She smiled grimly. “The Hollands ‘forgot’ to invite us to their black-and-white ball. I guess they were afraid I’d take a dive into their koi pond.”

“You’re kidding?” Flynn looked incredulous. Then he frowned. “I knew there was a reason I never liked them.”

For a moment she thought she’d misheard him, but the disgusted expression on his face was undeniable.

He didn’t blame her for the incident. He didn’t think she was vulgar or stupid or attention-seeking or clueless because she’d set out to help a woman in distress and wound up in the fountain. He didn’t think she’d gone out of her way to cause trouble. He was sympathetic. Maybe even supportive.

The shovel hit a rock, the metal ringing loudly, and she realized she was simply watching while her guest sweated over a hole in the ground. She shook her head, wishing she could shake off the past as easily.

“Here. I should be doing that,” she said, striding forward.

“If it gets to be too much for me I promise to send up a flare.”

“You’re my guest.” She reached out to grab the shovel from him.

“What are you going to do? Wrestle me for the shovel?” he asked.

“I was hoping you’d realize I was right.”

“Would it help at all if I told you that I’m enjoying myself? That I’ve had a really shitty couple of weeks and that digging a nice big hole and getting some dirt under my nails is exactly what the doctor ordered?” His tone was light but there was something in his eyes that told her he wasn’t joking.

She let her hand fall to her side and retreated from the hole. “Okay. If you insist.”

He set to it again, his biceps flexing powerfully as he drove the shovel into the earth. Mel watched him, twitchy and uncomfortable with being forced into the role of spectator.

“You’re about to break out in hives, aren’t you?” he asked after a couple of minutes.

“I’m used to doing things for myself.”

He drove the shovel into the ground and left it there. “Then you’ll be pleased to know I’m done.”

Mel bit her lip and looked at him, aware that there was a very real chance that she was coming across as a surly ingrate. “I do appreciate the help. You’ve been incredibly generous…?.”

He waved a hand, effectively dismissing her words. “Let’s get this baby in the ground where she belongs.”

She didn’t even bother arguing with him this time. Between the two of them they lifted the tree upright so it sat on its root ball. She squatted to get a grip on the roots, digging her gloved fingers into the dirt and clay, while Flynn did the same on the other side of the tree.

“Okay. One, two, three,” she said.

They both lifted and shuffled toward the hole at the same time.

“Slowly,” Flynn said as the tree started to slide into the hole.

Mel shifted her grip to the trunk to try to control its descent, earning a face full of leaves for her efforts. She felt rather than saw the tree hit bottom and sat back on her heels with a relieved sigh. Flynn did the same on his side of the hole. After a beat he leaned to one side so he could make eye contact with her around the foliage.

“Thanks for letting me help.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “Thanks for insisting.”

He pushed himself to his feet and then they filled in the hole and watered the tree into its new site.

“There. Done,” Flynn finally said, thrusting the shovel into the earth one last time.

Mel pushed a stray curl out of her eyes and considered her orange tree. In its new position, it would get close to eight hours of clear sunlight a day. With a bit of luck, she might even get fruit this summer.

Reaching out a hand, she patted the trunk affectionately. “Over to you. Show us what you’ve got, baby,” she said quietly.

Then she remembered she had an audience. When she glanced at Flynn, he was trying to hide a smile.

“Okay. So I talk to my plants occasionally,” she admitted sheepishly.

“I read my tomatoes Shakespeare one year.”

“Yeah, right.” She squinted at him, sure he was making fun of her.

“I did, I swear. My mother’s housekeeper swore her grandmother used to do it and got bumper crops.”

“And?”

“I think I should have gone for one of the comedies instead of the Scottish play.”

Mel’s laugh was loud and heartfelt.

Flynn grinned, then checked his watch. “Whoa. It’s nearly eleven. I’d better get going. I’m supposed to be doing the final inspection on Summerlea.”

“You bought it? Oh, wow.”

Usually the local grapevine was good for gossip, but she hadn’t heard a whisper about the old estate being sold so she’d simply assumed that Flynn and Hayley had walked away from their inspection unimpressed.

“It’s going to be a money pit, but I couldn’t let Edna Walling’s last great design slip through my fingers.”

Mel couldn’t hide her surprise. It was one thing to know how to transplant a tree, but to know the name of a long-dead, highly influential garden designer took his interest in gardening to a whole new level.

“What’s wrong? Having visions of polo ponies again?” he asked wryly.

“No.”

But he was right—she was. Mel was the first to admit she had some pretty set ideas about what people with money were like. She’d learned them firsthand at the feet of her husband and her in-laws. She’d seen the hypocrisy, the judgment, the insularity. She’d absorbed the politics, the values, the social mores. She knew where women of a certain income bracket liked to shop, who they allowed to cut their hair, how they preferred to keep their bodies lean and slim. She knew where the men lunched, the football clubs they supported, the charities they were happy to fund in return for a piece of the glory.

She’d assumed Flynn was like the rest of them, but apparently she’d assumed wrong.

He checked his watch again. “I’d really better get going.”

“I’ll walk you up.” It was the least she could do after he’d saved her considerable effort and offered her what was clearly expert advice.

They walked side by side in silence. Mel wracked her brain for something innocuous to say, but the edgy feeling was back now they didn’t have the task of transplanting the orange tree to occupy them. She snuck a look at him out of the corner of her eye but he seemed perfectly at ease.

“I can give you your key now if you’d like,” she said. “Save you from having to collect it later.”

“Sure, if that makes life easier for you.”

“I was trying to make life easier for you.”

They were approaching the house and Flynn stooped to collect his jacket and sweater. He washed his hands on the garden tap at the bottom of the stairs as she raced into the house to grab the keys.

“You’re not in Red Coat this time, I’m sorry. I had a previous booking, so you’re in Tea Cutter, the cottage we passed on the way to plant the tree,” she said as she descended the steps to rejoin him.

“I noticed there was another car in the parking lot. Interlopers.”

She smiled at his small joke and handed the key over. “Good luck with your inspection. When do you take possession?”

“Next weekend.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t muck around.”

“You know what they say, life’s short. It suited the vendors to have the sale go through quickly and it suited me.”

He pulled his car keys from his jeans pocket and she realized she was holding him up.

“Take notes on the orchard grove for me.” She took a backward step to signal she was letting him go. “I’m basing my new orchard on memories of my last visit to Summerlea so I might quiz you on it later.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you admitting to shamelessly ripping off my new garden’s design, Ms. Porter?”

“Um…yes?”



He laughed. “I’ll take some photos for you.” He turned to go, then swung back. “Unless you want to come to the inspection with me?”

It was her turn to laugh. “Sure. I could give you advice on your renovations. Tell you how a pro would do it.”

“I’m serious. I’d actually appreciate hearing your opinion.”

He was sincere, she could see it in his face. Once she got past her surprise, her first impulse was to say no—she’d gotten into the habit of saying no to a lot of things during her marriage, for a number of reasons—but it had been ten years since she’d seen the gardens at Summerlea. It would be beyond helpful to see how Edna Walling had designed the orchard and how the garden had matured.

Mel hesitated for a moment, then caught sight of her muddy jeans. She was caked from the knees down, her sweater blotched with yet more muck. The Lord only knew what was going on with her hair—something bad, she suspected, because it rarely behaved itself.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m not really fit to be seen in public right now.”

She indicated her muddy clothes.

“It’ll only be me and the real estate agent. No film crews or paparazzi.”

She opened her mouth to issue another polite excuse.

“All right. If I wouldn’t be in the way,” she heard herself say. “I’d love to come.”

“Do you need to lock up?”

“I do. I won’t be a tick.”

She went into the house to secure the front door and grab her house keys, and all the while a voice in her head screamed at her to go back and tell him no, thank you, and send him on his way. The voice told her he was simply being polite, that he couldn’t possibly really want her tagging along, that even if they’d had a perfectly nice, perfectly normal conversation, she was bound to say or do something wrong because that was what she always did.

She ignored it, because it was her husband’s voice, and her mission over the past twelve months had been to get him out of her head now that she’d gotten him out of her life.

An ongoing challenge, obviously. But she was getting there.

Coat in hand, she pulled the door closed behind her and started down the stairs. “I’m ready.”