All They Need. Sarah Mayberry

face and she reached up to grab his hand, keen to not be on her ass at his feet for a second longer than she needed to be. His firm hand closed around hers, and she rose to her feet almost effortlessly.

      He was a big man, but she was a big woman. Clearly, he was packing some serious muscle under his butter-soft leather jacket.

      “That’s a lot of tree you’re hauling there.”

      “It’s not as heavy as it looks,” she lied.

      He lifted an eyebrow and she knew he wasn’t buying her claim. Her backside was still aching and she desperately wanted to rub it. Instead, she put on her professional hat. Not the easiest thing to do with mud splashed up the legs of her oldest jeans and her butt throbbing.

      “If you give me a few minutes, I’ll clean up and grab the keys to Tea Cutter Cottage for you.”

      “What about your tree?”

      “It’s not going anywhere.”

      “That was kind of my point.” He surveyed the yard. “Where are you taking it?”

      “I’ve dug a new site at the bottom of the property.”

      She didn’t go into detail—Flynn would hardly want to hear about her plans for a fruit orchard and a vegetable garden that would eventually feed not only her but her guests—if they chose—as well as her family.

      “You’re going to kill yourself getting it down there.”

      Her eyes widened as he started pulling his jacket off.

      “What are you doing?”

      “What does it look like?”

      “But—but you’ll get all dirty.”

      Her gaze took in his expensive-looking brown leather boots, his designer jeans and the black sweater he was wearing.

      “I don’t mind.” He threw his jacket onto the grass nearby, then tugged his sweater over his head and tossed it on top. He was wearing a dark gray T-shirt underneath. It looked as though it was made of silk, which probably meant it was.

      “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t let you ruin your clothes.”

      “A little dirt never hurt anyone.”

      He examined the tree for a beat. “The drop sheet was a good idea.” He stooped and grabbed the wad of canvas she’d been dragging, separating the corners out and offering her one. “Shall we?”

      “No. No way.”

      “If you don’t help me out, I’ll have to try to equal your Herculean solo effort and risk embarrassing myself if I fall short.”

      She stared at him, utterly thrown by his offer and his apparently genuine desire to help her out.

      “Okay. If that’s the way it has to be,” he said with a shrug. He bunched the two corners together again and started to pull the tree forward.

      “Stop,” Mel said, moving to block his path.

      He grinned and offered her a corner of the drop sheet again. She took it with a frown, which only seemed to amuse him even more.

      “Thank you.” It came out a little grudgingly and she cleared her throat. “I really appreciate your help.”

      “It’s my pleasure.”

      She darted him a skeptical look but he didn’t look as though he was merely obeying the dictates of some masculine code of honor. He looked thoroughly in his element, as though this really was his pleasure.

      Which was just plain strange, given who he was.

      “On the count of three?” he said.

      She took up the slack on her corner, and on his signal began to heave on the drop sheet. The difference in effort required was profound and she almost fell on her backside again.

      “You okay?”

      “Yes. I wasn’t expecting it to be this much easier.”

      “I have a feeling I should probably be insulted by that. Do I look that anemic?”

      It took her a moment to realize he was joking. She smiled uncertainly. “You don’t look anemic at all.”

      He didn’t say anything but he continued to seem quietly amused as they dragged the tree down the lawn, across the garden path, behind Tea Cutter Cottage and through a gap in the screening trees to the large clearing she’d chosen for her fledgling orchard. Although covered with patchy grass, it had never had a real purpose or design—until now.

      She directed him toward the shovel she’d left sticking out of a mound of dirt to the left of the clearing. They came to a halt beside the hole she’d dug that morning.

      “Thanks for that,” she said, already turning to lead him to the main house so she could get him settled in.

      “How are you going to get it in the hole?”

      She paused. “The same way I got it out.”

      Which had been through sheer determination and not a little swearing. But he didn’t need to know that.

      “Come on, let’s do this.” He knelt beside the tree and began untying the twine she’d used to keep the hessian covering in place.

      She stared at his down-turned head, baffled by his determination to be helpful despite the obvious risk to his clothes and his complete lack of obligation to her. He was her guest, after all. She was supposed to be at his beck and call, not the other way around.

      “I’ve done this a few times over the years, but it’s always a bit heart-in-your-mouth, waiting to see if you’ve done more harm than good,” he said as he tugged at the twine. “It drives me crazy when people plant trees where they think they will look pretty rather than where they’ll grow well. A sixty-second conversation with someone in a garden center would have told them that citrus sinensis need sunlight, the more the better. How hard is it to ask the right questions if you don’t already know the answers?”

      He glanced up at her to gauge her reaction and suddenly it hit her.

      “You’re a gardener.”

      The amused look was back in his eyes again. “You say that like it’s a miracle. Or at least about as likely as Bigfoot being real.”

      “Sorry. It’s just not what I expected.”

      He nodded thoughtfully. “Let me guess. You had me pegged for a polo player, right? Maybe a yachtsman?” He spoke with an exaggerated British accent.

      She smiled before she could catch herself. “Something like that.”

      “My mother is a keen gardener. She recruited me as her slave when I was a kid, and I’ve been getting my hands dirty ever since.”

      Mel dropped to her knees and pulled her penknife from her pocket, making short work of the knots he’d been tugging at without much success. He gave her a wry look and she shrugged apologetically.

      He turned to inspect the hole she’d dug before glancing at her in an assessing way. “Would it offend you if I offered some advice?”

      “I guess it depends on what it is.”

      “The hole isn’t big enough. You want the soil around the roots to be a little loose and aerated, so the tree can grow new feeder roots easily.”

      “You’re lucky I don’t slap your face,” she said, deadpan.

      She immediately felt a dart of alarm. She’d always been a bit of a smart-ass—impossible not to be growing up with a father and a brother who took no prisoners when it came to teasing and pranks—but her quick tongue had consistently gotten her in trouble with her ex. Owen had hated it when she said something provocative or racy or pithy. He’d wanted her to be discreet and elegant and sophisticated, not