Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Nothing that compared to what Nino seemed intent on doing.
I mean, there was the pampering, yes. But then there was also showing up at work and offering to work for me. I mean, who did that? I’d known some men in my life that I would call good men, but, clearly, I needed to rethink my understanding of such a thing if there were men who existed that went as above and beyond as Nino Grassi did.
Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he offered to drive me home.
I knew the motivation.
There was still a lot of work left to be done at The Brunch Bar. And my mom was torn between letting me sit there, feeling guilty, while she buzzed around me, losing time by taking me home and caring for me, or leaving it all to try to do the following morning.
So Nino made it easier. Not only for me, but for my mom. And for that, I didn’t even have the right words to give him. And I had a lot of words. Too many, in fact, at times.
He walked me out to his sleek black sedan. I didn’t know a whole heck of a lot about cars, but I knew enough to recognize the name as an expensive one.
He’d been an utter gentleman, opening the door, helping me lower in, and even reaching across me to buckle my seatbelt, so I didn’t have to try to strain to do it.
It didn’t escape me, either, that he was the first man I’d ever let see my home. You know, aside from the repairman I’d had over when I’d had an issue with my pipes, and then one with an electric socket.
But that man was old enough to be my grandfather, not a ridiculously handsome guy who’d gone down on me in a hospital room and massaged my feet and looked after me.
As we turned into my driveway, it was like I was seeing my house for the first time, through eyes not my own.
It was a tricky thing, having a home. Because it’s not long before the rose-colored glasses are off, and you are suddenly seeing nothing but its flaws. The cracks in the ceiling, the worn wood on the floors that needed to be refinished, the little gaps between the molding and the wall that needed to be filled.
But new eyes usually only saw the good.
So that was what I was seeing as my little ranch came full into view. A ‘starter home,’ the real estate agent had called it. Just a little over a thousand feet with two bedrooms, one full bath, and one of those dining spaces that kind of melted into the living room.
That same real estate agent had said, upon my seeing the yellow paint, “Nothing a fresh coat of paint can’t fix.”
But I loved the yellow.
It was probably what I’d noticed first. How bright and cheery that yellow looked, set among a bunch of drab white and gray houses on that block. It had character.
Most of the outside work had been done since I’d moved in. I’d ripped out ancient boxwoods that had lined the front of the house, growing tall and woody, and replaced them with native flower gardens. The bright purple of the echinacea butted up against the happy yellow of the black-eyed susans. Low ground cover—coreopsis, phlox, and coral bells—sat in front of those taller back flowers.
The entire garden on the side yard was dedicated to milkweed in the hopes of drawing the endangered Monarch butterflies to the yard, so they could reproduce and build up their numbers once again.
As for the backyard, well, that was mostly one big vegetable garden at this point. Along with berry bushes. And an insanely comfortable hammock, so I could rest out there after work, or working in the garden, and soak up the feel of having something of my very own to call home.
“You’ve put in a lot of work on these gardens,” Nino said, and my heart felt all warm at that being the thing he noticed first. Not only did he notice it, but he’d known it had been my work.
“I did,” I agreed, giving him a smile.
“My Ma would be envious of your coreopsis,” he said, making my head whip over too fast, the world spinning for a second.
“I’m sorry. Did you just say… coreopsis?” I asked.
To that, his lips curved up in that sexy little smile of his.
“I did. My Ma is an avid gardener. Used to earn my allowance as a kid by pulling weeds. Once pulled out a clump of her coreopsis. I still haven’t heard the end of it. It’s probably the only flower I do recognize on sight because of that,” he admitted with a little chuckle at the memory.
“In your mom’s defense, if it was Moonbeam coreopsis like I have, it is hard to find, and expensive since it’s sterile. No seeds,” I explained at his quizzical look.