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Bradshaw’s Garden Center.
Jake eyes the sign with hope. His last hope, probably. But Nat swore by the knowledge of the staff and promised wonders and who is he to ditch one last chance to save himself before he’s buried alive in his own house.
The moment the automatic door closes behind him, he’s engulfed by the humidity of a greenhouse, sweat immediately prickling down his back. The place looks like a jungle, plants covering every inch of every shelf, floor, even hanging down from the glass ceiling. As soon as he steps in, a cloud of mist hits his face in tandem with a sprinkler spraying his hair and smoothing it lamely against his forehead. The jungle ambiance is even emphasized by jungle-like noises; a parrot croaking somewhere, muffled by all the greenery.
“Hello?” he calls, taking a few deliberate steps forward, fighting the urge to look around for snakes.
“Over here,” a voice calls from somewhere behind a huge monstera plant covering most of the passageway.
“Over here, over here, over here,” the parrot squawks from the same direction.
Jake sighs, squeezing his way around the massive leaves of the plant, thinking something about his grandma’s living room and the way he used to hide behind the same shaped leaves, playing hide and seek with his sisters. Back then, monsteras were for old people's homes.
“Over here, over here, over here,” the parrot’s voice echoes around him as he tries to follow the source of the sound, hoping to find an actual person at the end of his quest. But who knows, maybe the store is run by a flock of birds or a jaguar or a fucking Tarzan, and it was all just a part of Nat’s plan to finally get rid of him.
But then, as he finally weaves his way through the bush of monstera leaves, he’s met with a scene worth walking through a jungle for.
First of all, the not so enticing part of the scene is the parrot. It’s bobbing its head at Jake in greeting from a cage pressed against a wall and mostly hidden by the foliage of the plants surrounding it. There’s a wooden sign, hanged haphazardly above the cage, saying “Hello, I’m Goose.” Though the bird is green and far too small - for the volume he’s able to produce or for it to be a goose.
“Hi, Goose,” Jake says absent-mindedly, eyes searching the area to find someone else to talk to. A human, maybe? At this point, anyone will do.
“Hello, I’m Goose. Hello, I’m Goose. Hello, I’m Goose,” the bird croaks, startling him.
“Shut up, Goose,” someone calls from behind the nearest shelf.
Oh, thank God.
Jake rounds the shelf and almost trips over a heap of soil bags, piled up on the floor, catching himself at the last minute on the metal frame of the shelf, numbly noting it’s full of succulents.
With a cloud of dust, another heavy bag of soil drops right in front of him, adding to the pile.
“Careful,” a voice behind the cloud speaks and Jake has to blink a few times for his eyes to clear enough to see the person behind it.
And what a sight that is.
Legs for days, wide chest, broad shoulders. Jake’s going about it all wrong and he knows it. You’re supposed to look a person in the eyes first, but with the way the guy turns to face him, all breathy and sweating, there’s no way he’s doing it the conventional way.
His eyes catch where the stretched out collar of the guy’s threadbare shirt sags just enough for it to reveal a sliver of chest hair and tanned, biteable skin. The thick column of his neck leads him straight to a would-be-awkward mustache if it wasn’t for the enticing way it sits just above an amused curve of soft lips. Wild honey curls, too long to be considered a proper hairstyle, too short to be tied in a bun, falling in big brown eyes that make Jake’s knees buckle.
“Hey, how can I help you?” the guy - Bradley, according to the name tag pinned to his falling-apart t-shirt - says in greeting. He brushes the dirt from his massive palms and hauls himself up and over the pile of soil bags to stop in front of Jake.
And if Jake wasn’t sweating already, he’s drenched now; of course blaming it on the sprinkles and decidedly not on the isn’t it hot in here? factor right in front of him. He suddenly understands Nat’s insistence when she told him about the store. Oh, she thinks she’s so smart…
But two can play the game.
“Hi,” he ducks his head as if to read Bradley’s name tag, dragging his eyes across his chest again, “Bradley,” he lets a smile - dimples and all - spread across his lips. “A friend of mine, Phoe- Nat, told me you could help me with something.”
“Nat sent you?” something flashes across his face. Amusement or annoyance? It’s hard to know. But his cheeks flush with pretty pink and Jake thinks that he could get used to the sight.
“We work together.”
Bradley eyes him suspiciously. “You’re from her squadron?”
“The newly-formed, yeah. Lieutenant Seresin, at your service,” he mock-salutes, watching the flush on Bradley’s cheeks deepen. Oh, this is going well. Maybe Nat was on to something here…
“Bradley Bradshaw.”
“Ah, so you don’t just work here.”
“Well…” Bradley shrugs. “What can I help you with, Lieutenant?”
Jake bites his lip, letting his eyes purposely linger where a drop of sweat makes its way from one of Bradley’s curls, down his neck and over his peeking collar bone; creating a tension worth snapping.
“So,” he sways on the balls of his feet, smile full of confidence, “years ago, I planted some mint into the flower bed in front of my house and it kind of overtook the whole-”
Bradley snorts. In a futile attempt to cover it, he coughs, turning away from Jake. When he turns back, he’s a little more flushed than before, though Jake would swear it’s definitely not for the same reasons.
“Uhm, sorry, just,” he coughs again, biting his lip hard, looking anywhere except at Jake, “before you continue, could you please ring that bell behind you?”
Jake frowns and looks around. And sure, there’s a big bell mounted on the wall right beside the parrot’s cage, partially hidden by the plants. “Erm…” pointing at it he lifts his eyebrows, “that one?”
“Uh-huh,” Bradley nods, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt, making Jake’s brain temporarily short-circuit when he catches the glimpse of a hint of upper abs and a softer belly with a lovely happy trail underneath.
“Right,” Jake tears his eyes from the sight before Bradley drops the fabric down from his face. With his mind occupied, his thoughts dipping below the waistband of the black boxers where the happy trail led, he takes a few steps back and rings the bell without thinking.
Big mistake.
The sound of the bell cuts through the humid air like a siren.
A choir of groans answers from all the directions. Huh, so there are more people working here…
“Mint alert! Mint alert! Mint alert!” the parrot starts, louder with every repetition.
“Shame on you!” someone shouts from the far end of the store.
Jake stills. “What exactly… Did I just do?”
Bradley lifts his hands palms up, still fighting the laugh threatening to bubble up. “Nothing special. Trust me. You were the third one to ring that bell today.”
Jake can feel the proverbial rug being pulled from underneath his feet, his cheeks warming.
Bradley takes pity on him. He schools the grin, pulling his lips into a customer-friendly smile and gestures to Jake to continue, though the gleam in his eyes stays sparkling. “So… You have a mint problem.”
It’s not a question, Jake notes.
He sighs, not exactly giving up but tucking the bravado away, hopefully for later use.
“It’s not a problem, it’s an invasion.”
Bradley chuckles, the sound of it warm and light. “In that case, I have three tips for you.”
“Shoot.”
Bradley lifts his hand with three fingers up, putting them down as he speaks. “Lime. Sugar. Rum.”
Jake glares. “Very funny.”
Bradley snorts, looking like he takes great pleasure in Jake’s offended stare. “You can always drop a few bombs when you’re flying by. That should do.”
“You done?”
“Right,” Bradley laughs. Shoving his hands into his pocket, he nods to their left. “Come with me.”
They walk past Goose’s cage, weaving their way through towers of terracotta pots and seed stands, making their way deeper into the jungle. Bradley has to push a few shelves to a side to clear the way - a display of muscle and strength Jake didn’t ask for.
“So,” with a perfect posture, he squats down to roll away a wheelbarrow of compost, “you know this guy - Sisyphus?”
Jake blinks, tearing his eyes away from Bradley’s ass. He frowns. “I don’t like where this is heading…”
Finally reaching his destination, Bradley props his elbow on one of the shelves. “Here,” he waves his free hand in front of the shelf, “are your options.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Of course,” Bradley reaches up for a pair of gardening gloves and a steel hand fork and Jake almost loses his focus as he latches onto the sliver of tanned skin just above Bradley’s waistband, making its appearance as his t-shirt rides up; but he won’t make the same mistake twice, so he wills his mind to focus - not on the two dimples on the small of Bradley’s back, where his tongue would fit so well, not on that… There are things that need his full attention now; like mint, for example.
"Here,” Bradley shows him the gloves and the garden fork, “are your options. You can dig the roots out. It'll take forever and you won't win. The mint is a strong enemy. You might actually die trying."
Jake fights back a groan. “Great.”
"Or... You can try and crowd it out with something else, thyme or catnip could work. But that's like fighting fire with fire and you might end up with the same problem with a different flavor in a few years."
"Pass. Gimme something that'll work."
"Well, you can always try weedkillers, but assuming you wanna use that bed for planting other stuff, I wouldn't do that."
Jake crosses his arms on his chest, aware of Bradley’s eyes following the movement. "What would you do, Mr. Mint Expert?"
Eyes full of mischief, Bradley leans back, crossing his arms, too. "How do you feel about moving?"
Jake quirks an eyebrow. "You have a spare bedroom?”
“Depends. You cook?”
“Depends. You like mint a lot?”
Bradley barks out a laugh, startling the parrot in the back, prompting it to start its ‘Hello, I’m Goose,” mantra again. It’s a nice laugh, Jake thinks, sight catching on the crinkles around Bradley’s eyes.
"Okay, my best advice is this: dig out the roots as best as you can,” he waves the fork in front of Jake’s face, “then cover it. Either tarp it down with something really thick - it should die without water and sunlight; or solarize-”
“That’s a word?”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, “you cover it with a see-through plastic sheeting and hope the lovely Californian sun will do the killing for you. Basically, you fry the soil and everything in it. Other than that,” he shrugs, “I don't know. As you said, there's a lot of good mint recipes out there..”
"Great.” Jake deadpans. “I guess I'll take the fork and the gloves then."
“Great,” Bradley parrots. “Anything else?”
“Maybe a shovel so I can dig my grave before the mint gets me first?”
“Mhmm… For that, I’d recommend a spade instead of a shovel. Works better for thick materials, like compacted soil.”
Jake shakes his head in disbelief. “Wow, well, thanks! Outstanding customer service. Where can I nominate you for the employee of the month?”
Bradley snorts. “Right over there, at the cash register,” he points with the fork, showing Jake the way. And frankly, Jake’s glad he can just blindly follow, because he’s not sure where the front of the store is anymore, lost somewhere behind all the plants and shelves and misty clouds making his t-shirt cling to his skin.
Once in every few steps, Bradley glances over his shoulder as if to check if Jake’s still there, that he hasn’t been eaten alive by any of the overhead hanging plants, or lost his way in the labyrinth of foliage. A small smile plays on his lips and it goes really well with his easy swagger and relaxed features and sharp tongue. It has been a while since Jake met someone who could keep up with him.
While Bradley works on scanning the items, Jake decides to try and salvage a bit of his dignity. Maybe Bradley can be persuaded to take his swagger to The Hard Deck. With Jake.
Behind his broad shoulders, there’s a board full of posters; the biggest one of them for landscaping, sporting the same logo as the store. Jake leans on the counter, waiting for Bradley to lift his eyes up from the screen. He nods his chin towards the poster. “You do landscaping?”
Something about the image of Bradley in his garden, t-shirt discarded, sweaty and flushed, makes his insides curl.
Bradley frowns, focusing back on the screen. “Why? You want me to trim your bushes?”
Jake snorts.
The frown on Bradley’s brow deepens like he just realizes what he said. He flits his eyes to Jake, catching his reaction. “Sorry, that… Sounded weirdly sexual.”
“That’s what he said…” Jake smirks. “You know I could really use some advice about what not to plant once I get rid of the mint.”
“Mhmm,” Bradley salvages his composure. He puts Jake’s newly acquired gardening tools into a paper bag. “Trust me, you already did the worst thing, only way from there is up. You’ll be a pro in no time.”
Jake sighs. “Sweetheart,” he drawls, letting his accent loose, “I’m trying to flirt with you.”
Bradley ducks his head, hiding a laugh. He leans forward, mirroring Jake’s stance, bringing them closer. “I know. I have eyes.”
“And they’re really pretty,” Jake lets his dimples out. He stretches out his index finger to brush Bradley’s thumb lightly. “Any chance you fancy a mojito in the near future? Preferably tonight?”
Bradley studies him for a while. A stray curl falls into his eyes, catching on his eyelashes as he blinks. Jake fights the urge to brush it away.
The receipt comes out of the register and Bradley straightens up to snatch it out. He grabs an additional piece of paper from a drawer, scribbles something on it before stapling it together with the receipt and throwing it into the bag.
“I’m sorry,” he says, passing Jake the paper bag, voice business-like, but not all too thorough in hiding his amusement, “we’re not allowed to fraternize with mint enablers.”
Jake stops, hand on the bag. “You what?! You literally own this place?!”
“Point stands,” Bradley winks. “Thank you for your purchase, come back any time,” he says cheerily, already on his way back to the jungle. Just before he’s about to disappear from Jake’s sight, he turns around. Walking backwards, he salutes while mouthing: “Lieutenant.” And then he’s gone, lost behind the plants and shelving.
What the fuck?
Jake stands there, looking where the store swallowed Bradley’s form, eyes wide and puzzled. With one last, confused look, he grabs the bag and walks out the store, shaking his head the whole time.
At the end of the day, he got what he wanted. He might not have a date tonight but he has his plans for the weekend cut out - and smelling of mint - anyway.
He throws the bag at the passenger seat and doesn’t take it out until Saturday morning, when he’s finally ready to conquer the invaded area of his front yard, dressed in old shorts and a worn out tank, water bottle in hand, sun screen applied, cap on.
He dumps the contents of the bag on the grass, and reaches for the gloves when he spots the receipt. Curiosity gets the best out of him and he lifts it to check the piece of paper stapled to it.
He rolls his eyes. It’s a mojito recipe. Of course.
But at the back… A phone number.
With a grin, he snaps a photo of the overgrown mint.
Jake: Help?
Bradley: Took you long enough…