The Gardener's Secret

First Cutting

The greenhouse reeked of wet dirt and rotting green things, the sort of thick, swampy stink that stuck to your skin and hair and made you feel like you needed a shower just for walking through the door. The July sun beat down on the glass roof, turning the place into a goddamn sauna; sweat and condensation dripped everywhere, making it feel like you were standing in a giant, humid armpit. Susana hung back near the wall, surrounded by a bunch of old ladies in floppy hats and one guy who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, all of them pretending to care about Luis’s rose-pruning demo.

Luis was bigger than his dorky email photo had suggested—broad shoulders, thick arms, his work shirt already soaked with sweat under the pits and down his back. He had his sleeves rolled up, showing off muscles and a mess of scars that looked like they came from fighting with rose bushes or maybe just being an idiot with a knife. His hands were rough and moved with a kind of casual violence, snapping through thick canes with the pruners, then making these perfect little cuts like he was showing off. Every move was sharp, practiced, and a little bit mean.

Susana’s hands were sweaty, and not just because the place was a steam bath. Her stomach was in knots, and she could feel the flush crawling up her neck. She wiped her palms on her khakis, trying to look like she was paying attention to whatever Luis was saying, but really she was just staring at the way his forearm flexed when he squeezed the pruners, hoping nobody noticed how obvious she was being.

“Always cut at forty-five degrees,” Luis said, voice low and rough, gravel beneath boots. “Sloping away from the bud so water runs off, not into the wound. Leave it open to rot, the whole plant suffers.” He glanced up then, dark eyes sweeping the group, and for a heartbeat locked on hers. No smile. Just assessment. She felt it in her body like a thumb pressing down, sharp and unyielding.

When the demo ended, Susana just stood there, feeling weirdly lost. Most of the old ladies shuffled off to the sad little refreshment table—lukewarm iced tea and cookies that were already going soggy in the heat. Susana hung back, pretending to care about a tray of plant cuttings, feeling like everyone could see right through her. Luis started cleaning his pruners with an oily rag, taking his sweet time about it.

“You,” he said without looking up. “New one. Come here.”

She walked over, legs wobbly like she’d had a few too many drinks. Up close, Luis smelled like sweat, dirt, and something sharp—maybe turpentine, maybe just the stink of cut plants and man.

“Susana, right?” He didn’t bother looking at her face, just grabbed her hand like he was checking out a piece of meat at the butcher. She stuck her hands out, palms up, and his fingers wrapped around her wrist—tight enough that she’d have to make a scene to pull away. His calluses scraped her skin as he turned her hand over, inspecting her like he was looking for defects. Her hands were soft, barely any tan, and she felt stupidly exposed.

“No calluses yet,” he murmured. “Soft. You’ll blister easily.”

“I’ve gardened before,” she blurted, hating how desperate and pathetic she sounded. The words tumbled out too fast, making it obvious how much she wanted him to think she wasn’t just some useless newbie.

“Not like this.” He released her wrist but didn’t step back. “Come. I’ll show you proper technique. Private. The others don’t need to see you struggle.”

He led her past rows of benches to a smaller alcove half-hidden by hanging baskets of trailing fuchsia. A propagation table stood there, littered with pots, sterile mix, and a fresh flat of rose cuttings. The glass here was older, streaked with mineral deposits; light came through diffused and greenish.

Luis shoved her in front of the table and crowded in behind her, close enough that his chest pressed against her back when he reached around to shove the pruners into her hand. He was hot—literally, radiating heat through her thin blouse—and she could feel his breath moving her shoulder blade, every exhale making her skin prickle.

“Grip like this.” His much larger hand enveloped hers, repositioning her fingers. Thumb on top, index along the handle for leverage. “Firm. Not tentative. Plants respect strength.”

She tried to make the cut, but the cane just fought back, the blade gnawing at it instead of slicing clean. Typical.

“Too soft,” he said against her ear. His lips weren’t touching her, but they were close enough she felt the shape of the words. “You’re afraid of hurting it. That’s why it tears.”

He tightened his grip over hers and forced the cut—clean, sharp, perfect. Sap welled at the wound, sticky and pale. Susana’s breath hitched. Between her thighs, heat bloomed suddenly and liquidly. She pressed her legs together, mortified at the faint wet sound her panties made.

Luis stayed right where he was, picked another cane, and made her do it again—slower this time. He pressed his hips against her ass, steadying himself, and she could feel the thick line of his cock, half-hard, pushing into her through his jeans and her underwear. He wasn’t humping her, just letting her know it was there, heavy and obvious.

“Better,” he said. “See how it yields when you don’t hesitate?”

She nodded, unable to speak, throat tight with embarrassment and need. Her nipples were hard, poking through her bra, and every breath made the fabric scrape against them, making her want to squirm. She felt desperate and stupidly needy, like she’d do anything if he just kept touching her.

He stayed like that through three more cuts. Each time his erection seemed to thicken, lengthen, until she could feel the blunt head nudging insistently. Her own cunt clenched on nothing, aching. She thought of Michael at home—probably finished mowing by now, probably drinking a beer on the patio, waiting for her to come back with stories about soil pH and companion planting.

Luis finally stepped back, and the sudden rush of cool air made her shiver. She almost whimpered at the loss, her chest tight with a mix of confusion, disappointment, and a pathetic kind of longing.

He plucked one of the severed buds—still tight, red as fresh blood—and pressed it into her palm. Closed her fingers around it.

“Take this home,” he said. “Keep it alive until next Saturday. Water it. Talk to it if you want. But don’t let it die.”

Susana looked down at the flower. Already, the edges of the petals were beginning to soften in the heat.

“I’ll try,” she whispered.

Luis’s smile was small, cruel in its gentleness. “Trying isn’t enough, Susana. Either it lives… or it doesn’t.”

He left her standing there, surrounded by the stink of broken plants and the even stronger stink of her own arousal, her panties soaked through. She stood there, legs shaking, feeling like a total idiot—humiliated, horny, and not sure which was worse—until she finally managed to move.

Driving home, the rosebud lay on the passenger seat. By the time she pulled into the driveway, it had already begun to wilt, head drooping as though exhausted. She carried it inside anyway.

Michael met her at the door, kissed her cheek, and asked how it went. She smiled brightly, said it was wonderful, so many nice people. He nodded, glanced past her toward the backyard.

“Roses look thirsty,” he said. “Maybe water them tonight?”

Susana fingered the wilted bud in her pocket, disappointment sitting in her chest like a rock. The petals were already limp and dying, and she wondered, not for the first time, if screwing this up would just prove what a useless mess she really was.

“I will,” she lied.