Safe in Noah's Arms. Mary Sullivan

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      Good. Welcome to my world.

      He stepped closer. “Let’s get something straight. I’m not happy about you being here, but you caused this—” he pointed to the cast “—so I’m going to work the daylights out of you. Farming is a tough, physical business, so be prepared to work like you’ve never worked before for your mandated two hundred hours.”

      A woman like Monica would never have volunteered for such a job.

      Disgusted, he growled, “Let’s get started. Follow me.”

      He turned away, but she touched his good hand to stop him. Fireworks zinged up his arm.

      “Okay, Noah, you want to clear the air? Fine.” He’d never heard her sound so hard. “I’m not any happier about this than you are. I hate that I broke your arm. I don’t like hurting people.”

      She took a deep breath, to calm herself he assumed, but what the hell did she have to be angry about? She hadn’t been injured in the accident. “I’ve never driven drunk before—never—but as my lawyer said, it takes only one time for something bad to happen. I’m sorry I hit you. I will pay to replace your bicycle. I’ve already offered more than once.”

      “It was vintage. It can’t be replaced.”

      “Well, I’m going to try. Give me all the details you can and I’ll track one down.” She tilted her head to one side. “Or can yours be fixed?”

      “It’s in bad shape. You really hit me hard. We’re both lucky all I got was a broken arm. You could have killed me.”

      He wasn’t sure, but he thought she shivered.

      “Maybe you have a conscience, after all,” he conceded. “In my experience, rich people rarely do.”

      “Stereotype much, Noah?”

      “As I said, I’ve come by it honestly. Through experience.”

      One long-fingered hand rubbed her stomach. What was that about? “I am really, truly sorry. I don’t know how many more times I can say it. Let’s move forward from here, okay? Show me what I need to do to help you.”

      So, the spoiled girl knew how to be reasonable. Okay, he could be, too.

      “Do you know how to farm?”

      “Nope.”

      “Do you keep houseplants?”

      “Never.”

      “Do you know anything about plants?”

      “Nada.”

      “Oh, crap.” Visions of how useful she would be to him evaporated like the last vestiges of morning dew dried up by the sun. He stared at Monica in her designer jeans and absolutely useless loafers.

      His silly dreams of a capable helper came to a screeching halt. She was going to be useless to him—even less so than he’d imagined.

      None of his friends or family had the time to help him out, and he couldn’t afford to hire employees.

      Instead, he was stuck with Monica Accord.

      What made it all truly rotten was that despite despising everything that Monica stood for—her princess-in-an-ivory-tower lifestyle, her frivolity, her designer clothing that embodied crass consumerism, her uselessness—Noah still felt those awful pangs, the ones he’d had in high school that had been worse than the growing pains in his long legs, worse than the way the other kids made fun of his retro clothing and taunted him his fervent fights to save the environment. He still felt those awful, unwelcome and debilitating pangs of unrequited puppy love.

      For two hundred long, long hours, he would be stuck with Monica, golden goddess, former cheerleader and prettiest prom queen Accord High had ever seen.

      As he led her around to the back porch of the house to hunt down a pair of rubber boots that might fit her, he said it again, with feeling. “Oh, crap.”

      * * *

      FOR THE FOURTH time in the two hours Monica had been weeding, Noah yelled at her.

      “What are you doing?” Along with his harsh shout came a shadow that cut off light.

      Behind his head, the sun created a halo around Noah’s too-long red hair. Wisps of it had escaped his ponytail and curled in the heat.

      “That’s not a weed,” he cried. “It’s a radish.”

      Rats. She’d screwed up again. Cramming it back into the earth, she shoved soil around the roots with shaking hands. She’d been pulling up too many plants. She just couldn’t tell them apart. She wished she could. Contrary to what Noah seemed to think, she didn’t like screwing up, especially when he’d drilled into her that she was wasting food.

      “It will be okay.” She picked up the pail beside her and watered the radish. “Honest, I’ll check it again tomorrow to make sure it survived.”

      He crouched down, too close. Noah had grown up well. Really well. His eyes sparkled like bright green gems. The man exuded a lot of heat. His mouth, a flat slash that divided his red mustache and beard, signaled his disapproval. Usually when she saw him around town, his lips were full and on the verge of an ever-ready smile—not that she’d noticed.

      “No, Monica, it won’t recover from being yanked out of the soil when it’s still so young. Would you recover?”

      Abruptly, he stood and stomped away, clearly agitated, but spun back and moved close to her again. “Every plant that dies is food that doesn’t make it to someone’s plate. Understand?”

      “I know. You’ve already told me a million times since I got here.”

      “You know nothing about hunger or poverty. All you’ve ever known is privilege.”

      Why did he take such pleasure in making her feel ashamed of who she was? “I get it, Noah. I truly do.” Monica stood, because she didn’t like that he was taller than her at the best of times, let alone when she was kneeling in the dirt. “Whether or not you choose to believe me, I’m trying my hardest to do a good job.”

      She took off her sun hat and wiped her forehead with her sleeve. It came away damp with sweat. “You have to understand how new this is to me, Noah.” She touched his arm, but he pulled away, so she dropped her hand to her side. Even before she’d hit him on Friday night, he’d always seemed to go out of his way to avoid her. Why did he dislike her so much? “I want to get this right. I really do. Okay?”

      “Okay,” he muttered, but she had the sense it wasn’t, that there was something going on beneath the surface that Noah wasn’t explaining to her—something she couldn’t figure out on her own.

      It messed with her nerves so she gave up trying. “I have to leave. I start work in forty-five minutes and I have to wash up first.” She took a small pink notebook and matching pen out of her back pocket and wrote down a sentence indicating she’d put in her first two hours of her sentence. She handed the book СКАЧАТЬ