Tara
Ifind him digging at the base of some palm trees, his body dripping sweat, his back muscles flexing with every sharp bite of shovel into dirt.
Nobody should be digging right now for a bunch of reasons. First, it’s midday in Phoenix, Arizona, and it’s pushing a hundred easily in the sun. There’s lots of shade in the Hayle garden, but still, I’m tired just hiking around the bushes and cacti and through the rough rocky ground to find whoever’s insane enough to do physical labor right now. I can’t imagine actually digging.
Whoever he is, the guy’s got a death wish.
But second, and more importantly, nobody, and I mean nobody, should ever turn over dirt in these gardens without my approval. That’s literally my only job in this hellish place. I’m the gardener, the master of this monstrosity, this abomination against nature, this massive waste of important water, this ode to excess and wealth, this big fuck you to all the average poor people that can spot the flowery bushes and towering palms from the street. Still, my garden means my rules, and I definitely didn’t approve digging.
I hurry toward a copse of palm trees ringed by net-leaf hackberry, this large, leathery, spiky bush with flat leaves and long, dry, vine-like fingers. Right in the center of it, at the base of the palms, is the shirtless man, sweating in the heat, his finely chiseled torso slashed with ink and puckered white-and-pink scars and rippling with beautifully sculpted muscles, like the sort of muscles you see on TV but never expect to gawk at in real life, like this guy must seriously spend half his life in gyms or maybe he just goes around digging in random gardens because those biceps, those back muscles, my god, it’s incredible. He’s a man made for digging. I’d let him turn me over.
I walk faster, anger rising, because no matter how hot this guy may be, this is my garden, I’m the gardener, and it’s my ass if the Hayle family is unhappy with whatever hole he’s randomly digging.
And the Hayle family is unhappy with absolutely everything.
“Hey, you,” I call out, trying to put on my big-girl voice, but it’s hard. I’m a solid five-foot-four in heels and this guy is easily over six feet tall and twice my weight, which means he practically hulks above me, but I’ve got to exude confidence and poise anyway. “Excuse me, sir, what are you doing?”
I slow and come to a stop when I get closer. He turns to me, wipes a forearm across his sweat-dripping forehead, and a smile slips onto his handsome face.
A face I know very, very well, but haven’t seen in years.
He’s the last person I expected and the only man in this entire world I truly hoped I’d never encounter again in my life.
“Tara,” he says, sounding genuinely pleased to see me. “I was wondering when you’d find me.”
Kellen Hayle leans confidently on his shovel, his arm muscles bulging, and I have to take a second to stare at his ripped stomach and chest, swirling with black ink and more scars I can’t identify, just to get it out of my system before I can look him in the eyes. They’re green, forest-dark like a mist-shrouded jungle, and his dark hair’s grown a little longer, pushed sideways and matted with sweat. His dark eyebrows and long lashes emphasize his high cheekbones, slightly crooked nose, and square jaw. The bastard looks like there should be a statue of him sitting in some ancient Greek temple somewhere. Except I suspect even the Greek gods would be jealous of his absurd body.
“Kellen,” I say, trying not to sound surprised and annoyed with myself when I do. “What are you doing here?”
“Digging a hole. You know your shovel is a piece of shit, right?”
“You’re using my shovel?”
“Sure, I figured you wouldn’t mind.” He hefts it up onto a broad shoulder. “Been a long time since I saw you. What’s it like pulling weeds for my family all these years?”
I grimace and heat rises into my cheeks. Both embarrassment and a deep, dark rage that glides beneath my surface like an ancient crocodile ghosting through a swamp.
“Kellen.” I say his name like the curse it is. “Why are you digging out here? You’re going to get heat stroke.”
“Nah, I’m good. Almost done anyway.”
“Don’t you have people to dig for you? Since you’re so rich and all.”
He laughs once. “I dig my own holes. Always have.”
Which is fair, considering what he gave up all those years ago, but the word is this man has done very well for himself despite his outcast status.
I come closer, stepping through the bushes. On the ground is a fairly deep ditch, maybe three or four feet down, though only a foot or two around. Sitting next to the hole is a box, steel gray and simple, locked with a basic padlock, no markings, nothing to identify it, just large enough to fit inside.
“What’s in there? Burying a time capsule?”
“Don’t worry about it.” He sighs and puts the shovel down. “I know this is your turf, but I figured you wouldn’t mind, since I’m part of the family and all.”
“You haven’t been back here in, what, seven years?” Since Cait died, I don’t add, because that wouldn’t be helpful.
He squints at me and tosses the shovel aside. I grimace as it clatters onto the rocky ground. The shovel’s a piece of crap because implements come out of my salary—which is a sick joke considering how rich the Hayles are. They pay me okay and my living expenses are covered, but still, I’m not exactly rolling in it.
“I assume you heard my father died.”