Free His and Hers by Ashley Ludwig Page A

bare hands into the moist, dark earth and made a hole. The wispy trunked olive tree fell from its pot, all roots, no soil. She moved to plant it.
    “Wait.” Cain stepped forward, hand on hers. “May I?”
    She gave it to him, folded her arms, and watched as he kneaded the root ball. His hands mesmerized as they massaged and separated the tangle of white, ropy root strands with careful fingers. “There.”
    “What does that do?”
    “These seedlings were planted in these pots. It’s bound up now. You’ve gotta free the roots so they can explore new territory.” He settled the plant into place and tucked it in with more soil.
    The plant looked so lonely there she added a circle of marigolds, mimicking his technique on each of the six plants.
    Setting hands on hips, he nodded in approval.
    She caught the slight frown he gave to the empty, matching whiskey barrel, but saw it vanish almost as quickly as it appeared. Then he turned, flipping truck keys in his palm. “Will I see you Friday?”
    “Me?” What was Friday? Her mind whirred. Friday. The tickets. Cain Trovato plays classical guitar. Butterflies ascended from her belly to throat. “At your concert?”
    He kept up his chin, gaze heavy lidded, warm, and focused on her.
    He thinks I’ll say no—A thrill coursed her veins as she realized, for the first time in months, she wasn’t afraid. To her soul, she wanted to see him perform. “Absolutely.” A breeze tugged her hair into her face, obscuring her vision, breaking the spell. “Grandma would love to go. I’ll bring her.”
    He blinked, stepped back, and nodded. “See you there, then.”
    She stood at the front porch rail and watched his truck disappear down the drive.
    Her heartbeat fluttered—butterfly wings. She’d been captured, caged for his keeping.
    Could he possibly sense it, too?

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Eleven
     
    Misty fought for normal beneath the residual thrill. Cain. Her mind twirled with their encounter, replaying it over and again. She brought her grandmother a mug of afternoon tea, and filled her in with the day’s news. The Flower Field, the Raineer’s, and now Cain.
    Nona sat at the well-worn, gleaming wood kitchen table. The tickets to the concert splayed out before her. “He did all that, for nothing?”
    “As long as I promised to take care of that.” She pointed to the gray-leafed, slender trunked tree in its new home out front. “And to take you to the show.”
    “Well, seems like the least we can do.” Nona idly poured, then stirred milk into her china cup.
    A finger of worry wormed its way into Misty’s heart, watching her grandmother’s gaze flicking back to the dark computer monitor, while her hand just kept stirring. “What is it, Grandma?”
    “Nothing. It’s nothing. I just got an electronic letter from Adele today.”
    “An e-mail, you mean.” Misty fought the urge to laugh, impressed with her grandmother’s attempt to join this century.
    “That’s right.” Grandma nodded. “Silly thing, Adele. She gave my address to an admirer of mine in Italy. He sent me the most lovely of letters.”
    “You’re already getting fan e-mail?” Misty swallowed a mouthful of cold tea. “You’ve only been online a day.”
    “Apparently, yes.” Grandma laughed, but there was pain behind her expression as she rubbed her curled fingers together. “I wanted to ask, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. You see, my arthritis is acting up and typing was taking an age.”
    “Grandma, I’d be happy to take dictation from you. Let’s have a look.” Misty rose and turned on the monitor. What she read made her blush to her roots. “This isn’t just fan mail. It’s a love letter.” Misty swallowed.
    Grandma giggled and plunked on the stool next to her. “I haven’t seen anything like it for years. Seems Adele took a picture of the four of us along with her, for old time’s sake. She showed it to this gentleman, and he’s positively smitten. Isn’t that the