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But then she realized he wasn’t leaving at all. Instead, Philip was at the back of his truck, lifting the tailgate. Relief washed through her as he strode back toward her, something cradled in his hands.

“Here, I nearly forgot,” he said, holding up a bottle with a familiar label. “Mom and Dad insisted I bring this over as a welcome present.”

He held out a bottle of wine with a beautifully designed label bearing the Thornberg Vineyard logo.

“It’s good,” he added, a hint of pride in his voice. “One of our best vintages.”

Elsbeth stared at the bottle, tracing the elegant script of the Thornberg logo with her thumb, feeling a little lost for words. The thoughtfulness of the gesture touched something deep inside her.

“Would you like to share it with me?” she asked before she could stop herself, her voice cracking slightly on the last word.

Philip’s jaw tensed, and for one terrible moment, Elsbeth thought she had overstepped some invisible boundary. But then his expression softened.

“I’d love to,” he said, his voice low and sincere. Then he glanced at his watch and frowned.

“But I have to go to work.” His expression turned regretful. “I have to check on the vines I recently planted.”

“Oh, of course,” she said quickly, embarrassment flooding her cheeks. “I’ve taken up too much of your time already.”

“Never,” Philip replied with a smile that made her heart skip. Then his eyes darkened slightly, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “But I will be done in a couple of hours.”

She nodded, suddenly feeling tongue-tied. The question she wanted to ask burned in her mind, but the words seemed stuck somewhere between her brain and her mouth.

“Dinner?” she finally managed to say. “I mean, would you like to come back for dinner? With me. Here.” She pointed awkwardly at the house, feeling utterly foolish.

“I would love to,” he said, his smile shy.

“Around seven?” she suggested, already mentally cataloguing the contents of her refrigerator. There wasn’t much, she’d been meaning to go grocery shopping, but she was sure she could cobble together something decent.

“Perfect.” Philip took a step back, as if reluctant to leave her side. “I’ll see you then.”

“I’ll be here.” She watched him walk away, watched him get into his truck. When he raised his hand and waved goodbye, she mirrored him, wishing he didn’t have to go.

There was no use trying to fight her feelings for him. She knew that now. Knew that she would regret it if she denied herself a chance at finding love.

Yes, she might have a dream, a promise to fulfill. But somehow, she’d developed tunnel vision. Elsbeth had become so focused on the flower farm, she had forgotten that her mom also wanted her to find love.

And as Philip’s truck disappeared from view, Elsbeth finally accepted that she might find love with Philip. He was everything she could want in a partner—thoughtful, kind, passionate about the land. They understood each other in a way that felt almost supernatural, sharing the same values, the same dreams, the same connection to growing things. They were in perfect harmony, like two plants thriving in the same soil.

Even after his truck had vanished from sight, she could still feel his presence lingering around her. The strange connection between them didn’t fade with distance. If anything, it intensified, as if invisible threads linked them together across the miles.

And he would be back, she reminded herself.For dinner.

The thought sent a wave of panic through her. Dinner. She’d invited him for dinner, and the contents of her fridge were no match for the wine she held in her hand.

Elsbeth hurried inside, closing the door and leaning against it as her heart raced.

Oh no! She uncurled her fingers to look at the rose petal resting in her palm. Had she squashed it?

No, there it was, delicate, velvety, perfect. She smiled down at it as she walked to the kitchen counter and carefully placed the wine bottle beside the petal. She really needed to make dinner, but first...

The petal. She needed to preserve it.

She went to the bookshelf in the living room where her mother’s old flower press lay.

She hadn’t used it yet in the new house, but it seemed fitting that the first thing she’d press here would be this rose petal. With careful movements, she placed it between sheets of absorbent paper, tightened the screws on the wooden press, and set it aside.

When this was done, she returned to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, surveying its meager contents. There was cheese and fresh bread left over from her lunch. She had pasta in the pantry, and there were more tomatoes ripening in the small kitchen garden. The addition of fresh herbs would make a simple but tasty meal.