When Emma Met the Hot Gardener: Part 2

Welcome to The Meet Cute, a series of fictional rom com short stories. From a young age, I’ve dreamt of relationships like the ones I saw in my favorite movies. A love story like Sally Albright and Harry Burns, or Andy Anderson and Benjamin Barry, or Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy.

I want the kind of love that requires a man to run through the streets at midnight, or a field in the English countryside at dawn, to tell me he loves me.

A love like that has yet to find me, but I know it will. And in the mean time, I’m writing my own love stories. My own meet cutes.

These meet cutes are inspired by the intrusive thoughts I constantly have when I am out in the world.

When I pick up a library book, I think what if there is a cutie librarian working today and we fall in love?

When I go on a solo trip, I think what if my sweet Airbnb host introduces me to her single son and we fall in love?

The Meet Cute is a series inspired by loves stories out of my wildest dreams. Last week, we were introduced to Emma and Miles in When Emma Met the Hot Gardener: Part 1. We left off at Emma and Miles finally connecting after years of watching each other in secret.

So without further a do… part 2.

“Wow. You have a good memory…” Emma says, trying to act as if this is not the most exciting moment in her entire life. The hot gardener was watching her the entire time she was watching him. And neither of them ever said anything.

“I like to call it a selective memory,” He replies, looking Emma in the eyes.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t have a good memory. I have a choosey memory. And my memory selected you as someone to remember.”

Emma instantly has to avert eye contact and cover her face with her hand to hide how flushed her cheeks must be right now. Who says things like that?

Miles laughs. “I really need to plant these flowers before the poetry reading later. Are you going to stick around for a bit?” Miles asks Emma.

Without hesitating, she says yes.

“I have nowhere to be. Can I help you? I’m already covered in dirt, so it really makes no difference at this point?”

Miles laughs, stands up from the table, and stares down at Emma and her dirty knees. “You’re not wrong. Honestly, that would be a huge help. Do you know anything about gardening?” He asks.

“A little. I know you’re supposed to loosen the dirt from the roots before planting them. So maybe I can tackle that part?” She says as she stands and makes her way to the wheelbarrow full of flowers. Mostly hydrangeas, but a few other plants she isn’t familiar with.

Miles smiles. “Perfect.”

Emma starts to work, gently loosening the dirt and handing the plants down to Miles who is on his knees in the dirt. Because of the position he is in, his soft curly hair keeps falling in his face, forcing him to run his hands through it every few minutes. He eventually pulls a hair tie off his wrist with his teeth and ties his hair up into a loose bun.

Jesus. Emma thinks.

He must have sensed her staring, because he turns his head to look up at her.

“Keep up, Emma,” He says with a smirk on his face.

She smiles back and does everything in her power to keep her eyes on the task at hand, and not Miles’ back muscles contracting beneath his tank top as he digs in the dirt. They work in comfortable silence for about an hour until each plant has been tucked safely in the ground. Emma stacks all of the empty plastic plant liners, tosses them in the wheelbarrow, and wipes her dirty hands on her thighs.

“Well, my work here is done. Thanks for letting me help. It’s been too long since I played in the dirt.”

“I should be the one thanking you. Now I actually have time to grab a bite to eat before the poetry reading later. Care to join me?.”

Emma wishes she could pause time, hit rewind, and replay that moment a hundred times over. The hot gardener just asked her out.

“It’s the least I can do after knocking you on the ground and putting you to work.”

“You’re not wrong,” she replies. “A bite sounds good.” Emma is actually starving, but would’ve kept working for hours on an empty stomach if it meant spending more time with Miles.

“I’ll meet you at the back gate in a few?” Emma nods. She’s never used the back gate before. It’s always locked, never open to the public.

He tosses the shovel in the wheelbarrow and walks away, giving her a few moments to collect herself. What the actual hell was happening? She whips out her phone and sends two texts: the first to her neighbor Jules, asking if she can feed Leonard dinner. The second to Maggie and Lyla, filling them in on the insane turn of events. She never could’ve imagined when she woke up this morning that in just a few hours, she’d be getting dinner with the hot gardener. Thank god she didn’t go home after breakfast.

When Emma walks up to the secret exit in the back, Miles is holding the gate open for her. She slips out onto Mott Street and lingers while he locks the padlock and secures his ring of keys back on the carabiner hanging from his belt loop.

“Where to?” Emma asks.

Miles looks up and down the street for a moment. He knows practically every restaurant in the neighborhood. The old ones, that is. He rarely goes anywhere new. And then he sees the red neon light sign of his favorite Italian spot just a few doors down.

“Do you like pasta?” He asks.

“Of course I like pasta. I love pasta. Who doesn’t?”

“One never knows. Follow me.”

A half a block later, the two are seated across from each other at Fiat Cafe. The cozy little restaurant can maybe fit 20 people—and that’s being generous. An older waitress comes over and is about to give them the rundown of the place when she clocks Miles.

“Miles! Where the hell you been? I almost came on down to that garden of yours looking for you.”

The two catch up for a few minutes, going on about happenings in the neighborhood, before the waitress looks over at Emma.

“Well, we’re being rude aren’t we hun. I’m Barbara,” the waitress says, extending her hand to Emma. Her skin is tough and covered in callouses. An occupational hazard from years in the service industry, but her fingernails are bright red and perfectly manicured. Emma shakes it and introduces herself.

“You have the most beautiful eyes my dear,” Barbara says. “I’d kill for baby blues like that. But enough chatter. You two look over the menu there on the wall and I can take your drink order in the meantime. The usual for you, Miles?”

“What’s the usual? Emma asks.

“They make the best Arnold Palmer in town,” Miles says. “But I’ll do a glass of wine tonight. I’m off the clock, technically speaking.”

Emma silently thanks god for this. No way would a few Arnold Palmers be enough to help her get through a dinner date, or whatever this was, with the hot gardener.

“Red or white?” Barbara asks.

“White.”

“Make it two,” Emma chimes in.

Miles goes on to walk Emma through the chalkboard menu painted directly over the bar. The pasta section catches Emma’s eye immediately. Pappardelle with Duck Confit, Bucatini Cacio e Pepe, Fresh Cavatelli with Broccoli Rabe, Fettucini Puttanesca.

“What sounds good to you?” he asks. “I order the Fiat Rigatoni every time I come, so I can’t vouch for much else. It’s got sausage and peas and cream and tomatoes and just enough Parmesan. It’s killer.”

Emma continues studying the menu. “I was thinking Cacio e Pepe, but now you’re convincing me I need the Rigatoni too…”

“Final answer?”

“Final answer.”

Barbara is back to drop off their wine and whips out a pad of guest checks from her apron pocket. She puts pen to paper and says, “Let me guess,” with a snarky undertone. “One bowl of Fiat Rigatoni for Miles.”

He laughs and nods. “You’re a true creature of habit, boy,” she says as she scribbles down his order. “And you doll?

“Don’t be mad, but I’m going to do the same,” Emma replies.

Barbara rolls her eyes and laughs. “You got it.”

She walks away and leaves the two of them to their wine. Just as Emma goes to pick up her glass, she realizes her nails are caked in dirt.

“I need to take care of this situation,” she says, wiggling her fingers in front of miles. “Be right back.” She sneaks out from the booth, grabs her purse, and locks herself in the tiny bathroom. After scrubbing her hands and nails, she looks in the mirror at her dewy cheeks and frizzy hair. The humidity does wonders for her skin, but not so much for her hair. She digs a comb out from her purse and touches it up to the best of her ability. A swipe of lipgloss and a spritz of perfume later, she’s feeling slightly better. Her jeans are still covered in dirt and her white tank top too, but if there is any boy in this town who could care less about that, it’s Miles. She doubts he owns an article of clothing that isn’t covered in mud to some extent.

Back at their table, Emma sits down and takes a sip of her wine, having no idea what she ordered, other than white. But it’s ice cold, which is all that really matters to Emma when it comes to white wine.

“So how long have you been working at the garden?” Emma asks. At least five years, she thinks. When I first noticed you.

“Believe it or not, I actually sort of grew up there. Both my mom and grandma were gardeners there, so I’ve spent my entire life in the garden. I don’t think more than a week has gone by in my 36 years on earth that I wasn’t there.”

Emma never expected a response like that. But knowing this explains so much. It explains why he is always there, no matter the day or the time of the week. He might not be the owner of the garden, but he may as well be. He is it’s caretaker, it’s peacekeeper.

“Do either of them still work there?” She asks.

“Grandma worked there up until she passed away a few years back,” he says with sadness in his voice. “And Mom’s knees are too bad these days to do much gardening. But that doesn’t stop her from calling the shots and bossing me around a bit.”

For the next 10 minutes, Miles takes Emma down memory lane. He shares a story of the first summer his mom actually put him to work, instead of just allowing him to play in the dirt. He helped her plant a magnolia tree that is blooming at this very moment right at the entrance of the garden. He shares a story of the first time they hosted an open mic night and Patti Smith showed up.

Barbara interrupts Miles with their pasta and a complimentary second glass of wine for them both. Emma takes a bite. It’s creamy and delicious, and the pasta is just al dente enough.

“Good?” Miles asks.

“So good,” she replies with a mouthful of pasta. “I’m glad you talked me out of the Cacio e Pepe.”

“It’s my life’s work to make sure everyone tries Fiat’s rigatoni at least once in their life. Now, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Miles says, cocking his head and smirking.

Oh god.

Emma’s heart immediately starts racing. It’s been nearly two years since her last date, and she’s forgotten what it’s like to be put on the spot. To sit across the table from someone and talk about yourself.

"What was with all of the sushi?” He asks, sending Emma into a fit of laughter. “I remember thinking back then… this girl is going to get mercury poisoning if she continues on like this.”

“OK, I can explain.” She tells him about the lunch special at the sushi place around the corner—two rolls, salad, and miso soup. All for $11. It was impossible to beat in this neighborhood, especially when you’re working on a barista’s salary. She stopped going when she quit the coffee shop and wonders if the deal is still the same. Doubtful.

He continues to inquire more about her life. Where was she from? Michigan. When did she move to New York? August 2020. During the height of covid. Why? Why does anyone move to New York? Was she still a barista? No. She quit a few years ago. What does she do for work now? Marketing for a small beauty brand.

By now, the two have both eaten every noodle in their bowls and finished their wine. Emma doesn’t drink much anymore, so two glasses have given her the perfect buzz. She’s about to drill him with more questions about growing up in New York when he checks his watch.

“Shit. I totally lost track of time,” he flags down Barbara for the check. “The reading starts in less than an hour and I’d really love a shower and change of clothes before hand.”

So where does that leave me? Emma wonders.

Barbara comes back with the check and Miles hands her his card without even looking at it. Emma mouths a thank you. She runs it quickly at the cash register just a few feet away and hands it to Miles to sign. Once the bill is settled, the two stand up from their table and Barbara leads them through the maze of tiny tables and out the front door.

“Where are you two off to next?” She asks once they’re all out on the street. “Anything fun happening in the garden?”

“Just a little poetry reading. We’re trying to do them twice a month.”

“I’ll make it to one of those some day,” Barbara replies longingly. “Good to see you my boy. And lovely to meet you Emma.” She hugs them both tight and heads back inside, leaving the two of them on the sidewalk. The street is aglow and alive. Couples holding hands on their way to dinner, friends laughing on their way to grab drinks, an old couple walking their fluffy little dog. It’s the perfect summer night.

Emma isn’t sure what to do next. She could head back to the garden now and wait for Miles there. Or she could get out while she’s ahead and head home for the day. She doesn’t want to overstay her welcome. But she never gets the chance to weigh her two options, because Miles makes her mind up for her when he sets off down the street, in the opposite direction of the garden. “Come on!” He shouts. She jogs to catch up to him and asks where they’re going. The answer? his place.

"If it’s not too weird? I just need to rinse off quick and thought you could join me.”

Join him? In the shower?

“Oh. Shit. No. Not like that. I mean. I’ll rinse off quick. You can hang in the living room. And then we can head back to the garden together? That is if you want to. I’m realizing I never even asked if you wanted to come to the poetry reading. You might have things to do. A life to get back to.”

He’s rambling. Emma interjects before he can go on

“I want to. Join you. For all of it. Lead the way.”

“Ok. Good,” Miles says. Smiling. “I’m just a block up Mott.”

Miles’ apartment is a classic New York fifth floor walk-up. She’s struggling so hard to catch her breath by the time they reach his front door that she has to rest her hands on her knees. Meanwhile, he isn’t breaking a sweat.

Clearly, he’s in very good shape. Emma thinks.

“How the hell do you do this every day?” she manages to get out.

“Two words. Rent Stabilized. Come on. You can catch your breath on the couch.”

Inside, Miles kicks off his shoes so Emma does the same. She follows him down a long narrow hallway into a living room. It’s cluttered, but in an organized way. Both the coffee table and desk are covered in stacks of magazines and books and little bowls of things like coins and tchotchkes and chapsticks. It reminds her of her own apartment. Collected and warm.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll just be a few.” He goes back down the hallway to where the bathroom must be because Emma hears the shower turn on, followed by the sound of keys clanking on the ground. If his keys are on the ground, the keys that are attached to his jeans, that means…

Emma simply cannot believe she is in the hot gardener’s apartment. The hot naked gardener.

She looks at the comfy couch calling her name, but decides to take this rare opportunity to poke around. Her first stop is his bookshelf. There are hundreds of old copies of National Geographic plus a mix of old and new hardbacks and paperbacks. She spots Keith McNally’s memoir, a tattered old copy of East of Eden, a first edition set of Harry Potter. The boy has range.

Miles meant it when he said he would just be a few, because before she has time to creep on any other corner of his apartment, he’s cracked the bathroom door open to let a cloud of steam drift out. The smell of sandalwood scented soap fills the room.

“I forgot to tell you to help yourself to anything in the fridge,” Miles shouts from the bathroom. “There should be a few beers in the door.” Emma does as she’s told and makes her way to his tiny kitchen. In the fridge, she finds two cold Coronas right where he said they’d be.

“Bottle opener?” She shouts back when she doesn’t find one in any of the kitchen drawers.

Miles is stealthily snuck out of the bathroom and is now standing directly behind her. He reaches over her shoulder to a magnetic knife strip above the stove top and grabs a metal bottle opener. “Here you go.”

She grabs and cracks open both beers, handing one to him and taking a long swig of hers. He’s leaning on the countertop just inches from her now. His hair is curly and damp. His feet are bare.

“Now I feel bad.” He says.

“Feel bad about what?” Emma asks, confused.

“That you’re still wearing those jeans covered in dirt and I’m not.” It’s true. She looks like a total slob in comparison to him now that he’s changed into a soft olive green button-up and jeans. “I have an idea,” Miles says. “Follow me.”

Miles leads Emma down the hall and into his small bedroom. His bed takes up nearly the entire room, leaving just enough space for an antique wood dresser. He opens the second to last drawer to reveal a collection of old jeans. ‘I’m addicted to buying vintage denim. There has to be a pair in here that’ll fit you.”

He’s letting me borrow his clothes? And not just some old t-shirt, but a pair of vintage Levi’s? Emma thinks. My friends are never going to believe this shit.

She grabs a pair, unfolds them, and holds them out in front of her. Low and behold, they look like they might just fit her. In the waist that is. Miles is a solid five inches taller than her.

As if he can read her mind, Miles says “I’ve had those for years. If they fit, we can cut a few inches off and you can keep them.”

The hot gardener is also a tailor now?

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says as he leaves the room and gently closes the door behind him.

Emma slips off her muddy jeans, turns them inside out as to not get dirt everywhere, and folds them on his bed. His bed that is covered in the most perfect antique quilt Emma has ever seen. She slips on the old Levi’s and low and behold, they fit like they were made for her. They’re a little baggy and low slung, but in the best way possible. And they do in fact drag on the ground. She cuffs them a few inches and decides she likes them this way.

She opens the bedroom door and finds miles leaning against the wall, waiting for her.

“Well?” He asks.

“They’re perfect. How’d you know they’d be perfect? Finding vintage Levi’s is impossible for me.”

“I don’t know... I just had a gut feeling. Do you want me to cut some length off?” He asks.

“No, no. We don’t need to get scissors involved. I like them cuffed.”

“Agreed. They look great on you,” he says with the cheekiest little grin. “Now, we must hurry. Chug your beer. Poetry starts in 10.”

They finish their Coronas and are halfway out the door when Emma remembers her dirty jeans folding on Miles’ bed. “Leave them! I’m doing a big load of laundry tomorrow and will throw them in.” He says nonchalantly. In her 30 years on Earth, a boy has never offered to do Emma’s laundry for her. Or any favor, really. This was a first, and she feared she could get very used to it very fast.

Miles locks up behind her, then the two head back to the garden. She’d only ever visited it during the day, but at night, it’s even more magical. Twinkle lights are strung up in the trees, creating a magical canopy overhead. And it’s crowded, but the crowd feels quieter, older, and more wholesome than it does during the day. It’s less touristy and more local at night.

“I’ll be right back,” Miles says. “Just need to check that the mic is working and everyone has what they need.”

He heads towards the gazebo where a few of the poets have gathered together. At least, Emma assumes they are poets. They all perk up and smile when they see him coming their way. He hugs a few and shakes hands with the others before getting to work plugging in a microphone and a speaker.

“Testing, testing. Hows that volume sound?” He asks the audience. Everyone gives him a thumbs up. He scans the crowd looking for Emma and finds her leaning against one of the big oak trees. They lock eyes and smile.

He gives a short welcome speech before opening the floor to whoever has prepared something. It’s open mic style, so there is no real order to things. Miles finds his way back to her and the two stand shoulder to shoulder, listening intently to each poet as they take the mic. There are some that Emma really enjoys and some she doesn’t understand at all. But eventually, the whole world goes quiet because Miles has placed his hand on the small of her back. She is completely lost in his touch. She decides to lean into the feeling, literarily, and shifts her weight into him.

The two stand like that until there is nobody left who wants to read. Miles excuses himself and head back up to the mic to thank all of the readers and wish everyone a good night. The crowds slowly start filtering out of the garden gates and in no time, it’s just the two of them again and a few poets lingering. Emma, unsure of what to do while Miles makes small talk, walks up to the gazebo and starts unplugging the equipment and wrapping up the extension cords.

“You don’t have to do that,” Miles says as he makes his way across the garden towards her. “I already put you to work once today.”

“It’s ok. I like to be useful,” Emma says as she gently places the wound up cord on the nearest table. It’s late, and she needs to go home. But she doesn’t know how to say goodbye. She doesn’t want the day to end.

He walks up so they’re standing face to face, just a few inches apart, sending Emma’s heartbeat soaring. She is nervous, almost too nervous to speak. But knows it’s now or never.

She swallows her nerves and says, “I’m glad I didn’t go home after breakfast.”

“What do you mean?”

“I met my friends for breakfast this morning, and then I almost went home. But my gut told me to stay out, and then it led me here. And I met you. Finally.”

“Finally?”

“Yeah… this is so embarrassing but.”

Is she really about to be this honest?

“But?”

“But, I’ve had a crush on you from afar for a while. I actually gave you a nickname, because I never knew your real one.”

He smirks and steps a little closer. Their bodies touching. “Which is?”

“The hot gardener.”

His laughter fills the garden. “I’ll take it.”

And then reader, he kisses her.