I never knew plumbing could be so sexy.
I mean, sure, there’s the hilarious porno version, “laying pipe” quips and all, but growing up in my house, I saw more of the sweaty, smelly, gross side of the trade. But the sight of Justin, drenched, biceps bulging as he wrestled with that faucet?
Well, now that’s an image that’s going to linger in my dreams.
And my awake time, too.
I jump out of bed early the next morning, full of excitement for the day ahead. And not just the feel-good volunteering, either. I pump myself full of iced coffee while I tear my closet apart trying to figure out what to wear to April’s community garden makeover. “You realize this project is basically a garbage pickup,” she points out via Facetime, effortlessly adorable in a pair of overalls and a baseball cap, her curly hair wrangled into a braid over one shoulder.
“A garbage pickup that’s also technically my first date with the CEO of my freakin’ dreams,” I remind her, digging deeper in my closet. “I need, like, sexy work boots. Are sexy work boots a thing?”
“Ask a Kardashian,” April grins. “See you there!”
“Ugh!”
Finally, I decide on a pair of ripped skinny jeans and an ancient pair of Converse—I know Justin’s into those, at least—along with a vintage I Love NY tee I found at a consignment shop. I scoop my hair into a ponytail and spend the better part of half an hour at the bathroom sink trying to make it look like I’m not wearing any makeup, then head out, ready for any trash-picking, flower-planting, and sultry flirting that might await.
The project is happening in the empty lot beside an old church, on the other side of Brooklyn. Justin is already at the lot when I arrive, looking ridiculously good in jeans and a white tee—and, sure enough, his own pair of Converse. “Nice sneaks,” he says, smiling at me from behind a pair of Ray-Bans, and I smile at him in return.
“You weren’t kidding,” I say, noticing the gardening gloves tucked into his back pocket. “Brought your own supplies, huh?”
“I’m a regular Boy Scout,” Justin says with a wink. “Always prepared.”
I bite my tongue and refrain from making a dirty joke, because I’ve already fulfilled my quotient of embarrassing behavior for the month. Although, he seemed to like that email, if the scene at my apartment last night was any indication . . .
“Welcome, everyone!”
I drag my thoughts away from Justin’s tongue and back to the task at hand. April is greeting everyone and explaining about our job today.
“Just a little elbow grease, and we can make this space somewhere really beautiful,” she’s saying, beaming happily. “So thank you for showing up and lending a hand!”
There’s a good crowd here: some people April knows from the flower shop and a bunch more from a community group she’s a part of, a couple of high school students looking for service credit and a gaggle of little kids running around.
“OK, you two are on clean-up duty,” April says, consulting her clipboard. “Then once we’ve got all the trash removed, how do you feel about hoeing?”
Justin blinks. “As a career?” he asks, grinning.
April’s lips twitch. “The ground,” she explains, smirking. “Hoes are over there.”
She points over to where a couple of sweet-faced old ladies are organizing supplies.
“I’m not even going to touch that one,” he laughs.
Once she’s gone, Justin turns to me. “Just so you know, I’d pictured our first date having a little more romance, and a little less manure.”
“You pictured it?” I repeat, getting that swoopy, fizzing feeling in my stomach.
Justin grins. “It may have crossed my mind, once or twice.”
“Well, luckily for you, I find manual labor very romantic,” I say, smiling wider. “Nothing makes me swoon like trash collection.”
He laughs. “Then babe, do I have good news for you.”
We get stuck in, filling giant black contractor bags with trash and pulling huge tangled weeds from the dry soil. If I was holding on to any idea of Justin as a snooty rich guy, the sight of him merrily lugging dirt would put them to rest once and for all. He’s totally at ease; in fact, he looks like he’s having a great time: helping out, chatting to the other volunteers, and making himself useful to anyone who needs help. The end-of-summer sun shines brightly overhead, and soon, I’m sweaty from the work. Justin looks plenty exerted, too, and I can’t help imagining what he’d look like all hot and bothered in a different context altogether. I imagine peeling off his damp T-shirt, licking my way down his—
Get a grip, girl. Preferably, on your hoe, and not the hot man beside you.
“That’s some neat flower bed action,” I praise him, pausing to take a gulp of water.
“I learned from the best.”
I smile. Is there anything more attractive than a man who loves his grandmother?
“So, your grandma was an avid gardener and astrology enthusiast who liked to play the ponies,” I say, desperate to distract myself from my own X-rated thoughts. “She sounds like quite a lady. Was she also a secret agent for the CIA?”
“Nope,” Justin says, not missing a beat as he hauls a busted old tire over to the trash pile like it barely weighs anything at all. “She was a reporter, actually.”
I blink in surprise. “What?”
He nods. “For her local paper back in New Jersey,” he explains, “before she met my grandfather and he whisked her off into a life of luxury cars and charity galas.”
I laugh. “You’re yanking my chain.”
“Google her,” Justin says easily, reaching out to wipe a smudge of dirt off my cheek, the casual touch sending shivers all over my body. “She did a bunch of reporting on the Civil Rights Movement back in the ’60s. Won a couple of awards for it, even.”
“Wow.” I wonder what other surprises the Rockford family holds in its staid, serious ranks. “She sounds incredible.”
“She really was,” Justin says with a smile. “She thought curiosity was the most important quality a person could have.” He regards me thoughtfully. “She would have liked you.”
I feel a glow. “Sounds like it would have been mutual.”
Because there’s somebody else I’m liking. And while I would have more than enjoyed a first date with just the two of us, alone, I think I like this better: seeing Justin relax, away from work pressures and the stuffy expectations of the Rockford name. I’m discovering more about him every day, and what I’m learning is that this is a man with hidden depths.
And I can’t wait to find out more.
By the time we’re finished, the lot looks incredible. We’ve transformed what was a messy, trash-strewn space into a lovely garden area, neat and tidy with rows of raised garden beds boasting flowers and vegetables, with shaded areas for kids to play and benches set out to chat. I can hardly believe it’s the same place we showed up to this morning.
“This is amazing,” I tell April, turning in a slow circle as I take in the cheery geraniums and bright marigolds, which she’s planted strategically to ward off pests. There’s even a hummingbird feeder hanging from one corner of the chain-link fence.
“Looking good, right?” April grins, pleased. “Turns out this place just needed a little love. And now, we celebrate!”
We all head over to an apartment building not far from the garden, where some of the volunteers are hosting a BBQ for everyone to enjoy. Up on the roof, they have a grill smoking, music playing, and plenty of ice-cold beers for us all. The mood is full of triumph from our hard day’s work, and soon people are on the makeshift dance floor, having fun.
Justin grabs me a drink from a huge ice-filled bucket and we make our way through the crowd to a quiet corner, overlooking the street.
“April seems to know everyone,” Justin comments, nodding to where April is chatting up a storm.
“She’s one of those people,” I smile. “Everyone who walks through the doors of her florist is a potential friend. I’ve known her since college,” I add. “I spilled coffee all over my pants right before a big presentation in class, and she just whipped off her skirt, gave it to me, and belted her shirt around her waist like it was always meant to be a mini-dress. After that, we were friends. Nothing bonds girls like a fashion emergency.”
“And Poppy’s the letter-writer,” he says.
“Letters, and wedding toasts, and dating profiles . . . Pretty much anything where people need a helping hand to tell someone how they feel.”
“Especially if they’re feeling amorous.” Justin gives me a wink.
I laugh. “What’s with all the questions, anyway? Doing a background check?”
“No reason,” he shrugs. “I just want to know everything about you.”
My heart stops. Coming from anyone else, it would seem like a cheap line, but Justin is looking at me like he really means it.
I blush and look away, glancing out over the city. The afternoon is mellowing to a pleasant haze, and after the workout in the garden, I feel relaxed and content to just drink our beers and chat for a while longer, the conversation meandering all over: from the garden to our favorite bands to how fast the city is changing, to the dumb shows we watched as kids. He’s the kind of easy-to-talk-to you don’t run into very often, and as we lean even closer together I can’t help but feel like I’ve known him a whole lot longer than just a few weeks.
As the dusk turns to deep blue twilight, the music goes down a notch: switching from energetic party songs to slower, mellow tracks. Justin offers his hand. “Want to dance?” he asks, setting his empty beer can down and tugging me gently out onto the center of the roof.
And yes. I want to.
Justin’s just as good at dancing as he is at kissing, which is to say, amazing. He wraps his arms around me, moving slowly to a Leon Bridges song that’s always been one of my favorites. I can’t help but rest my head against his chest and close my eyes as we sway, savoring the delicious pleasure of his body against me, the heat of him and the way his heart taps slow and steady next to mine. When the music stops, I open my eyes again, and I’m surprised to find him gazing back at me. Before I can say anything, he pulls me off the dance floor and back to a private corner of the roof, and then his warm, sexy mouth is pressed to mine.
Mmmmm . . .
The kiss starts chastely enough, but pretty soon it escalates, our tongues tangling together and Justin tugging me close. I muffle a moan as his hands slide over my ass, and I pull him against me, my back up against the wall and his mouth doing wicked things to mine. It’s intoxicating, a rush of adrenaline and lust and who-knows-what turning my blood hot and my knees to jelly.
I don’t know how long we make out there, Justin pinning me back against the wall as I rake my short fingernails up his back through his T-shirt, his mouth on my neck and my collarbone and my jaw, and his body hard against me. Very hard. It could be five minutes, it could be an hour, until we surface for air, panting hard.
“You want to get out of here?” he murmurs, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin where my T-shirt meets my waistband. Shivers ripple through me.
“Yes please.” I swallow hard, more than ready for what’s coming next. “Let’s go.”