Just Can't Forget You: (Oakland Hills Short Story 2) Read online

  Contents

  From the Back Cover

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Author Note

  Also by Gretchen Galway

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Just Can’t Forget You

  by Gretchen Galway

  Melissa has finally got her life just where she wants it. She has a peaceful job at a plant nursery in lovely California, her parents are happily retired, and her love life…

  Well, who needs the hassle?

  But then he shows up at work insisting she’s the one for him—well, for his garden. With bedroom eyes and a voice that makes her toes curl in her gardening clogs, Eduardo is even sexier than he was when they were teenagers. And this time, he’s not taking no for an answer.

  Just Can’t Forget You is set in the world of Gretchen Galway’s bestselling Oakland Hills series. It’s a stand-alone short contemporary romance of about 45 print pages.

  Chapter 1

  MELISSA’S mother always called her at work.

  She could’ve ignored the call—it was only her third week on the job at the nursery, and she had a reputation to establish—but Mom would call every fifteen minutes in a rising panic until she heard her daughter’s voice. Better to get it over with.

  “How’s my favorite mother?” Melissa asked as she picked up.

  “Are you all right? You didn’t answer right away.”

  Even before Melissa had attempted suicide as a teenager, her mother had worried excessively—and since that little incident a decade ago, she’d been as clingy as a fabric-softener dryer sheet on a fleece sweatshirt.

  “Fantastic,” Melissa said. “I’m potting a rare South African perennial. At my new job. Which is where I am right now. Working.” Hopefully her mom would get the hint.

  No such luck. “You could be a scientist at Harvard,” she said with a tragic sigh. “Instead, you’re a gardener.”

  At seventeen, Melissa had been a stressed-out, suicidal wreck at the top of her class, but at twenty-eight, she was happy and content with her quiet, unimpressive life. Unlike her parents. “Don’t make me feel bad. I just might try to end it all again.”

  Her mother made a distressed noise in the back of her throat. “I don’t know how you can joke about that. After what we all went through.”

  Melissa had always felt guilty about the attempted suicide—so guilty it woke her up in the middle of the night—but her therapist had given her permission to move on. “How’s Dad?”

  While her mother launched into a discussion of her father’s golf game, which was the center of his life since they’d retired to Phoenix, Melissa used her free hand to scoop potting soil into a plastic nursery pot. She loved her new job. Golden Gate Horticulture in El Cerrito, California filled over a city block and was one of the most prestigious, well stocked, and expensive nurseries in the San Francisco Bay Area.

  The pay was terrible, of course, but she didn’t have many expenses. She knew she was lucky. One of the greatest gifts of all—the freedom to do what she loved—was hers, and she’d finally learned to appreciate it.

  Across the rows of shaded camellias and rhododendrons, she heard the trill of the store phone inside the main building. “Mom, I’ve got to go. I’m at work.”

  “But—”

  “Love you, love Dad. Bye!” She shoved the phone in her back jeans pocket and jogged into the main building, where the nursery’s owner, Ian Cooper, was ignoring the phone ringing next to him. Her boss was a very shy man who only talked to the plants if he could get away with it.

  Out of breath, she picked up the receiver and smiled at Ian. “Golden Gate Hort.”

  “Good morning. I’d like some plants.” The man’s low voice had the soothing tones of a late-night radio announcer.

  Enchanted by the sound, Melissa froze in the act of wiping peat moss onto her jeans. She realized she was still panting.

  “Hello?” the man asked.

  “I’m here,” Melissa said. “You want some plants.”

  “Yes. You have those, I assume?”

  She shook off the spell of his voice. He had a formal way of talking that suggested he was older; many of their customers were retired academics from the University of California in neighboring Berkeley. “Sure do. Lots of them.”

  “Excellent. I need someone to put them in my backyard.”

  Melissa tried to meet her boss’s eye. “We have two excellent garden designers on staff. Jake, who’s here today, is even a landscape architect, but he’s out to lunch at the moment, so if I could just get your—”

  “I’d rather take care of this right now.” The baritone rumbled in her ear. “It’s a small area off the patio. I just want a few plants. I’m tired of looking at dirt. I’m not picky.”

  She wished she hadn’t been the one stuck with this call. Her own experience was in propagation, not customer service, especially not with elderly men whose horticultural vocabulary was limited to “plants” and “dirt.”

  “They won’t do anything too elaborate if that’s not what you want. They’re trained to—”

  “I was thinking about those little white flowers that smell so good,” he said. “A whole bunch of them. Do you have those?”

  “We have the largest selection of ornamentals in the Bay Area.” She glanced at her boss again. “Can you be more specific?”

  “I’ll try,” he said. “Small white flowers, kind of pointy. The main thing, though, is they smell good. They’re all over the place. I’m sure you know what I mean. ”

  “Star jasmine?”

  “No idea. Does star jasmine smell good?”

  “Very,” she said.

  “Then let’s go with that. I’ll be home tomorrow morning. Saturday. Somebody can come by at ten and put it in the ground then.”

  She bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “It doesn’t really work that way,” she said. “We’ll need to see the space first, confirm the plant selection, the amount of plants needed. Then we have to assess and amend the soil, address the watering needs, perhaps install a drip-watering system, talk about long-term maintenance—”

  “I don’t want anything that needs much maintenance. Does your star jasmine require much work?”

  “No, actually, it’s very low-maintenance—”

  “Perfect. Then that’s decided. I’ll give you my address. You or the other guy can drop by and do whatever you need to do. May I have your name?”

  “Melissa, but—”

  “Melissa?” His melodious voice sharpened.

  “Yes, Melissa.”

  The phone went quiet. She ran a hand through her hair, forgetting her fingers were still grubby with potting soil. “I’ll get your number and one of our senior staff will call you back to go over the det—”

  “Melissa… I’m writing this down. Mind if I get your last name?”

  “McGowan. Melissa McGowan. But it’s Jake or Mary you’ll probably be—”

  “McGowan?”

  “Yes.”

  The phone went quiet for a moment. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “It might be better to set up an appointment. If you give me your—”

  “See you soon.” He ended the call.

  She stared at the phone in her hand. She had the oddest sensation of déjà vu.

  Ian slipped back behind the counter. “Everything OK?”

/>   “He’s going to come in.” She replaced the phone handset in the cradle. “When’s Jake due back from lunch?”

  “No idea. What time did you make the appointment?”

  “I didn’t. He just said he was coming in.”

  “Next time, get the name and number first,” Ian said. “Then one of us can follow up.”

  Melissa felt her cheeks warm. His mild rebuke stung. “I’ll get it when he comes in.”

  Hanging a pair of bright-purple nitrile gloves on a hook next to the register, Ian tilted his head toward the door, where Jake was just striding in. “Don’t bother. Jake will handle it.”

  “What’s up?” Jake asked, unsheathing fries from a white In-N-Out Burger bag.

  Feeling even worse, Melissa filled Jake in on the customer’s call and then escaped to her potting table and the peaceful simplicity of rare perennials. Replacing her earbuds, she let out a calming breath as the indie folk-electronica music filled her ears and got back to work. Within seconds she was immersed with the feel of soil, water, roots, and life, and the world outside slipped away.

  Until a hand on her shoulder made her jump so violently that she dropped the root ball she’d been holding. As she fumbled to take out the earbuds, she turned and saw a bearded man in dark glasses looming over her.

  Chapter 2

  UNNERVED, Melissa took a step back and bumped into the table. She bent down to pick up the delicate plant that had fallen onto the gravel.

  “Melissa?” The man’s voice was low and buttery-smooth.

  She realized it was the old-timer on the phone. Except he wasn’t an old-timer. Unless thirty was the new eighty.

  Heart pounding—it was just that she’d been surprised, and had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with how he looked like a dashing secret agent who saved the world before breakfast—she straightened and attempted a smile.

  “That’s me,” she said, looking past his broad shoulder straining under the crisp white button-down shirt for Jake or Ian, suppressing the urge to cry for help.

  “I shouldn’t have crept up behind you,” the man said, slowly removing his sunglasses.

  Help.

  He was the most sexually potent specimen of male humanity she’d ever seen—at least in person. She imagined movie stars had this kind of charisma, but although she’d grown up in Southern California, she’d never been this close to one. Twelve, maybe eighteen inches away from deep brown eyes, blue-black hair, a square jaw under a trimmed beard, and a wide, sensuous mouth that was slightly curved up at the corners.

  And there was the gold stud in one ear, drawing her attention to his high cheekbones above the sharp line of his beard.

  This guy wanted plants?

  Maybe he needed a soothing retreat from his job thwarting violent criminals. Or competing in triathlons. Or perhaps she was overreacting, and he was only an internationally famous underwear model.

  “Melissa,” he said again. His probing gaze stroked her from head to toe.

  She nodded, embarrassed he’d unbalanced her. “Yes. Hi. You’re the guy on the phone?” She called him a guy to make him seem more down-to-earth, even though every inch of him screamed man, man, man.

  Or maybe that was her screaming.

  He extended a hand. His shirt was rolled up, exposing a muscular forearm. “Yes. I’m… Eduardo.”

  She held up her soil-stained fingers. “You don’t want to touch me.”

  His penetrating gaze made her ears burn. “I don’t mind,” he said finally, enveloping her hand in his. His grip was strong but gentle. Warm but hot.

  She gave him a quick squeeze and jerked her hand away before she gave into temptation and left it there for a while.

  Eduardo. An old memory stirred in the depths of her brain. “I’ll introduce you to Jake. He makes the house calls.”

  He shook his head and tucked the glasses into his chest pocket. “I already told them inside that you were helping me.”

  “But—surely they told you—Jake would work with you. I don’t do—”

  “I assured them you knew exactly what I wanted,” he said.

  The naked root ball in her hand was crumbling to pieces. Turning away from him, she tucked it into a pile of loose potting soil, manhandling the little plant to keep her hands busy. “I’m sure there’s some misunderstanding. I don’t have any design experience. The one you want—”

  “You’re the one I want.” He walked around the table and touched the spiny green leaves of the seedling. “Your boss agreed.”

  “Ian? Are you sure?”

  He nodded.

  She frowned at the nursery building. Ian had made it clear when he hired her that she wasn’t qualified yet to do garden design. Jake had a MA in landscape architecture, and Mary had worked over thirty years as professional garden designer.

  “Don’t worry about your lack of experience,” Eduardo said. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job. And even if you didn’t, I’d never tell.”

  “That’s nice of you, but I wouldn’t want you to lie about that.”

  “Still so honest, aren’t you, Melissa?” he asked.

  The nagging sense of familiarity came to a head. How could they possibly know each other? There was no way she’d forget a secret agent underwear model named Eduardo. And yet… “Have we met?”

  He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “I didn’t have a beard then,” he said. “A lot changes in ten years.”

  Ten years.

  Her mind flew back to an exclusive, secluded estate in Napa Valley. The diverse team of professionals at a private facility that assisted in the mental health of privileged but troubled adolescents.

  “You knew me as Eddie,” he added.

  She snapped the seedling’s fragile stem between her fingers.

  Chapter 3

  EDDIE.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  Eddie.

  His little brother had been killed in a hit-and-run as he was crossing the street. Grief like that would flatten the strongest of emotional giants. He’d spent the summer at the Center, as she had, learning how to pull it together. But unlike her, he’d had an excuse. She knew now that depression could be genetic, a biological fluke, and she shouldn’t beat herself up, but back then she’d been too hard on herself for falling into a depression for no comprehensible reason. When he’d started following her around, joining her on walks, swimming laps with her in the pool, she’d tried to push him away. But he’d been too sensitive, too smart, too understanding—and she’d embraced their friendship.

  Until the counselors, fearing her emotional instability, subtly separated them. Her therapist convinced her to let go of Eddie, focus on herself, and look to the future. And then Eddie went home, and she stayed another month, and then two, until finally she was ready to face the world again.

  She didn’t want any reminders of that time in her life. The unbalanced girl who’d almost killed herself was a stranger, living on a different planet, and she didn’t want to return.

  “Eddie,” she said, dropping the plant’s mangled corpse onto the ground at her feet. “Sure, I remember. Nice to see you.”

  “I’ve changed a little bit,” he said, rubbing his beard, smiling.

  Lord help her, he sure had. Taller, broader, hairier—but the eyes were the same. He’d always had such gentle, intelligent eyes.

  “Me too.” She flushed. She’d gained at least forty pounds. Whether it was the meds or her fondness for apricot scones, her body was no longer petite. Of course, she was still short, since nobody had invented an SSRI that made you get taller along with the extra girth. “I’m surprised you recognized me.”

  “You look great.” He held her gaze. “Really.”

  She was afraid of telling him the same. Her tone would be way too convincing.

  Eddie. Eduardo. Wow. He’d been cute back then, but this was grown-up cute.

  “The guy inside said you could come by my house tomorrow around four,” he said. “Does that sound good to y
ou?”

  Tomorrow? Going from ten years directly to tomorrow seemed out of proportion. But if Ian wanted her to work with him, what else could she say? “All right. I’ll come by at four.”

  “I can’t wait.” He flashed her a broad smile that sent shivers down her back.

  * * *

  Eduardo glanced at the clock on the wall of his house’s foyer. Just past four.

  Melissa should arrive any second. He hoped she wore those jeans again, the ones with the ballpoint pen doodles on the thighs that showed off her curves.

  Melissa.

  She was even more beautiful now, over a decade since he’d first seen her sketching an ancient live oak tree in the outskirts of the Center estate.

  Melissa.

  Her voice had been familiar, but it wasn’t until she’d spoken her name that he’d realized it had to be her. She’d always loved plants. He’d hurried over from work and talked to the nursery’s owner, convincing the man that he’d already established a rapport with Melissa and insisted she be the one helping him. Mentioning the address of his property, and its size, had sealed the deal.

  Eduardo opened the door to watch for her, his pulse accelerating as he saw she’d already arrived and was getting out of her car. It was a red hatchback with Nevada plates, and he wondered if she had just moved to the area. If she was staying.

  Of all the people from those months at the Center, it was Melissa who haunted his memories: her humor, her intelligence, her depth. Much of the year of Alex’s death was a blur, but she stood out in sharp focus, the only bright light in a dark time.

  She walked up his front steps, nodding a greeting. A frayed backpack hung over one shoulder, and a floppy hat as big as an 18-inch pizza box sat on her head. Her blue eyes under the brim were wary.

  His heart tightened in his chest, a reaction that surprised him. It had been so long. He hadn’t realized how deeply those old feelings had rooted.

  “It’s really nice to see you again, Melissa,” he said.