She closed her eyes and slowly rocked her chair, listening to the sounds of nature: birds singing, tree frogs chirping. Suddenly a god-awful noise ripped through the air, metallic and guttural and completely out of place in this idyllic setting. The sound continued to grind louder and seemed to be getting closer until it was nearly deafening compared to the peaceful silence that had preceded it. Maggie jumped from the rocking chair and leaned over the edge of the balcony to see what on Earth could be making that horrible sound.
For all the offense the noise was causing, the visual image below completely made up for it. A tall, muscular man stood below Maggie in the backyard, completely unaware that he was being watched as he revved the motor on a large, tractor-sized lawnmower and tinkered with the engine. Maggie realized this must be the groundskeeper. She’d imagined some weathered old man. She was pleasantly surprised as she leaned against the banister sipping her coffee and ogling unobserved.
He wore a white tank top revealing broad shoulders and strong muscular arms, with faded jeans riding low on his narrow hips. A red bandana was tied around his head holding back a mess of blonde waves. His skin was tanned a light golden brown and his muscles glistened with sweat as he worked on the equipment. Maggie tried not to drool.
After several minutes he achieved whatever repairs he was after and mounted the large mower, driving it around the side of the house and out of sight. Maggie sighed disappointedly. She’d been enjoying the show. She set down her coffee and headed back into her room.
She decided that the claw foot bathtub was better saved for late evenings accompanied by glasses of wine, and instead opted for a long, leisurely shower. After her shower, she made her way into the large closet wrapped in a big plush towel. She laughed at how little space her small selection of clothing took up. Coming from Boston she didn’t have a very big summer wardrobe. With the heat down here in Georgia she decided she’d definitely need to shed a few layers from her usual outfits.
She slipped on a pair of jeans and a blousy tank top which she’d only previously worn as an undershirt. She brushed out her auburn hair and pulled it up into a messy bun. A quick glance in the full length mirror met her approval and she was off.
Her first order of business was to find her way to the small town of Sweetwater and stock up on some groceries. She ventured back out onto the balcony to retrieve the coffee mug she’d left sitting on the small wrought iron table. She glanced over the banister casually in hopes of getting one last peek at the sexy gardener. Of course he was nowhere in sight. She didn’t even hear the mower any longer. Perhaps he was already gone. A glint of sunlight caught her eye and she leaned over the banister. Craning her head around, she could see the wall of windows that enclosed the kitchen. To her horror she also saw poor Fred spilled across the brick patio with some furry creature digging through the scattered soil.
“You killed Fred!” she cried in genuine horror, then rushed out of her room flying down the stairs and racing into the kitchen where she had left her cherished plant. She reached the sink in seconds, flinging herself to the window to look out at the massacre below.
“No!” she screamed as she saw the plant completely uprooted and strewn across the bricks. The furry creature continued to root around in the mess completely undisturbed. Maggie ran for the backdoor, throwing it open and running straight into a hard, unyielding chest.
Strong hands gripped her arms and steadied her. She looked up into startling blue eyes and lost her breath.
“Are you okay?” he asked with a charming southern lilt.
“I…” Maggie couldn’t form a coherent thought. She immediately recognized him as the gardener she had been secretly watching earlier. A million things flitted through her mind at once, none of them sticking long enough for her to come up with anything intelligent to say.
“Who’s Fred?” he asked as he glanced behind her, clearly concerned and still holding onto her in a protective way as he scanned their surroundings for any sign of danger.
His question reminded her of the problem at hand. She slumped in his arms.
“Fred was my fern,” she admitted woefully. “And that thing killed him!” she accused, pointing behind him at the scraggly cat that was now watching them curiously.
He released his hold on her and turned to look in the direction she was pointing.
“Your fern?” he asked slowly, in the way you would speak to someone whose sanity was in question.
“Yes,” she confirmed, defeated. She pulled away from him and walked to the mess, dropping to her knees and trying to scrape the scattered soil back toward the mangled plant. The cat looked annoyed that she was claiming his prize.
To her surprise, a few moments later the gardener knelt beside her with a small pot in his hands. He delicately reached out and scooped up the root ball, lifting the remains of the plant and gently placing them into the pot. He continued to scoop up handfuls of soil into the pot as she watched in silent awe. He finally looked up at her, his cerulean blue eyes capturing her full and undivided attention.