Page 11 of Love in Full Bloom (Zaftig Ever After #2)

I arrive at Jasmine's studio apartment fifteen minutes early, carrying a bag of takeout from the Mediterranean place downtown and a bottle of wine tucked under my arm.

The evening air feels charged with anticipation, but something doesn't feel right.

Her last few text messages have been uncharacteristically brief, almost cold compared to our earlier conversations.

Something's changed since yesterday morning at my property. The connection we shared, the way she lit up talking about the wildflowers, the kiss that still lingers in my mind—it all felt so genuine. But now there's a distance I can't explain.

I check the address again before knocking. From inside, I hear a muffled "Coming!" followed by what sounds like something being moved or rearranged.

When Jasmine opens the door, her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. She's wearing paint-splattered overalls over a green t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy bun with copper tendrils escaping around her face. Even in this casual state, she's breathtaking.

"Hi," she says, stepping back to let me in. "Sorry about the mess. I've been working all day."

"No apology needed." I hand her the wine and food. "I brought dinner. Hope you like Mediterranean."

"I love it. Thank you." She takes the bags, our fingers brushing briefly. I notice she doesn't quite meet my eyes.

Her apartment is exactly what I expected—vibrant, creative, alive with color.

Plants crowd every windowsill, paintings in various stages of completion lean against walls, and the air smells of paint and turpentine with undertones of something floral.

It's chaotic but in the most beautiful way, like a meadow where every plant has found its perfect place through natural selection rather than design.

"Your studio is through here?" I ask, nodding toward an open doorway where I glimpse an easel.

"Yes, but maybe we should eat first?" She's already moving toward the small kitchen area, setting down the bags. "I'm starving, and it smells amazing."

I follow her lead, helping to unpack the food and pour the wine. Her movements are stiff, almost nervous, so different from the fluid grace I observed yesterday. Something is definitely wrong.

"Jasmine," I say quietly as she reaches for plates. "Is everything okay?"

"Of course." Her response comes too quickly. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"You seem... different. Did I do something wrong?"

She sets the plates down with a small sigh. "No, Ben. You didn't do anything wrong."

"But something's changed since yesterday."

She busies herself with opening containers, avoiding my gaze. "I just... I've been thinking."

"About?"

"About us. About how different we are." She finally looks up at me, and the uncertainty in her eyes makes my chest tighten. "Your work is so structured and precise. Mine is emotional. Almost silly. We're complete opposites."

I study her face, trying to understand where this is coming from. "I thought that's what made our connection interesting. Complementary perspectives, remember?"

"Is it, though?" She fidgets with her wineglass. "Or is this just a temporary fascination with something different from your usual world?"

The question catches me off guard. "Where is this coming from, Jasmine? Yesterday you seemed happy about our connection."

"I was. I am." She looks down again. "But I ran into someone who knows your work professionally. She seemed surprised you'd be interested in someone like me."

Understanding dawns. Someone's planted a seed of doubt, and it's taken root in fertile ground. I recognize the pattern—I've seen it in her paintings, the way she captures the beauty in overlooked places while simultaneously questioning if others will value them.

"Let's take our food into your studio," I suggest, changing tactics. "I still want to see where you create."

She looks surprised but nods, helping me gather the food and wine.

We move into the studio space, which is even more vibrant than the rest of the apartment.

Canvases in various stages of completion surround us, each one a window into how Jasmine sees the world.

I notice one canvas turned to face the wall and wonder about its significance.

We settle on a small couch beneath the window, plates balanced on our laps. For a few minutes, we eat in silence, but it's not the comfortable quiet we shared yesterday. This silence feels heavy with unspoken doubts.

"The painting you started after we met," I say finally. "Is that the one facing the wall?"

She nearly chokes on her wine. "How did you know?"

"Just a guess. May I see it?"

She hesitates, then sets her plate aside and moves to retrieve the canvas.

When she turns it around, I understand immediately why she hid it.

It's a garden unlike any I've seen before—structure and wildness intertwined, architectural elements softened by untamed growth.

It's our worlds meeting, creating something new.

"It's not finished," she says quickly. "And the composition doesn't quite work. The colors clash in places, and the concept feels forced?—"

"It's beautiful," I interrupt, setting my plate down and moving closer to examine it. "It's exactly what I've been trying to create at my property. This balance between order and spontaneity."

"You really think so?" Her voice is small, uncertain.

"I know so." I turn to face her directly. "Jasmine, whoever made you doubt our connection was wrong. Our differences aren't an obstacle—they're the entire point."

The art festival event is starting in an hour across town at the botanical gardens. We're supposed to attend together—her paintings are being featured in the garden setting, a perfect fusion of our worlds. But I'm not sure she's in the right headspace for a public event.

"We don't have to go to the festival tonight if you're not feeling up to it," I offer.

"No, we should go. My work is already set up, and the curator is expecting us." She sets the painting back against the wall, this time facing outward. "I just need a few minutes to change."

While she disappears into her bedroom, I study her paintings more closely.

Each one reveals something about how she sees the world—beauty in overlooked places, resilience in unexpected forms, emotion in every brushstroke.

I'm drawn to a new piece I haven't seen before—a study of water reflecting light, reminiscent of the pond at my property.

When Jasmine returns wearing a flowing green dress that makes her eyes more emerald than hazel, I'm struck again by how beautiful she is—not in a conventional way, but in a way that feels alive and authentic.

"Ready?" she asks, though her voice suggests she's anything but.

The botanical garden glows with string lights when we arrive, creating a magical atmosphere as twilight deepens.

Jasmine's paintings have been placed throughout the garden, each one positioned near the type of plant it depicts.

It's a brilliant curatorial choice—her wild rose painting beside a heritage rose garden, her dandelion study near a section on beneficial "weeds," her meadow piece in an open area where multiple plant communities converge.

Visitors move through the garden, pausing to admire both the plants and Jasmine's interpretations of them. I watch her interact with people, explaining her work with passion despite her earlier uncertainty. When she's in her element talking about art, she shines.

But I notice the tension returns whenever she's not actively engaging with others. She keeps a subtle distance between us, and twice I catch her watching me when she thinks I'm not looking, her expression troubled.

After an hour of mingling, I find her alone by her meadow painting, staring at it with a furrowed brow.

"Your work is the highlight of the exhibition," I say, approaching slowly. "I've overheard at least a dozen people saying so."

"Thanks." She doesn't look up. "The garden setting helps. Your world makes mine look better."

The way she phrases it confirms my suspicions about what's troubling her. "Jasmine, can we talk? Somewhere private?"

She nods, and I lead her to a secluded bench beneath a flowering dogwood, away from the crowds. We sit side by side, not quite touching.

"I know that someone said something that made you doubt us."

She stares at her hands folded in her lap. "It wasn't just what she said. It was realizing how different our worlds are. Your work is respected, professional. Mine is..." She gestures vaguely.

"Emotional? Intuitive? Filled with heart?" I finish for her. "Those aren't weaknesses, Jasmine. They're what make your work powerful."

"But they're not what make a successful career. Or a successful relationship." She finally looks at me, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I'm afraid you'll eventually realize I'm not... enough. Not structured enough or professional enough or..."

"Stop." I take her hands in mine, holding them firmly. "Listen to me. Before I met you, I was creating technically perfect landscapes that lacked soul. My work was admired but not loved. You showed me what was missing—the emotional connection, the wildness that makes a space truly alive."

She blinks, a tear escaping down her cheek. "But?—"

"No buts." I reach up to wipe away the tear with my thumb. "I've spent my entire career imposing order on nature, and you've shown me the beauty in letting things grow where they will. Do you know how valuable that perspective is to me? Not just professionally, but personally?"

"I just don't want you to wake up one day and realize I'm too much. Too emotional, too scattered, too..."

I smile gently. "Jasmine, I've spent my life being too structured, too controlled, too focused on perfection. You balance me. You show me what I've been missing."

Her eyes search mine, looking for sincerity. "Really?"

"Really." I take a deep breath, deciding to be completely vulnerable. "The truth is, I'm scared too. Scared that I'm too boring for someone as vibrant as you. That my methodical approach to everything will eventually frustrate you. That I won't be able to keep up with your creative energy."

Surprise flashes across her face. "You're afraid of not being enough for me ?"

"Of course I am." I laugh softly. "You see beauty everywhere. You feel everything so deeply. I worry that my more reserved nature will disappoint you."

"That's ridiculous," she says immediately. "Your thoughtfulness, your attention to detail, the way you notice things others miss—those qualities are what draw me to you."

"And your emotional openness, your intuitive understanding of beauty, the way you find meaning in things others overlook—those are what draw me to you." I squeeze her hands gently. "Don't you see? We're not too different. We complement each other."

She's quiet for a moment, absorbing my words. "Like structure and wildness in a garden."

"Exactly." I smile, feeling the tension between us finally begin to ease. "Neither is complete without the other."

A soft breeze stirs the dogwood blossoms above us, sending a few white petals drifting down around us like snow. One lands in Jasmine's hair, and I reach up to brush it away, letting my fingers linger against her cheek.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "For pulling away. For letting my insecurities create distance between us."

"Don't apologize for being human." I lean closer, resting my forehead against hers. "Just promise you'll talk to me next time, instead of withdrawing."

"I promise." Her eyes meet mine, the uncertainty replaced by something warmer. "If you promise the same."

"Deal." I seal the promise with a gentle kiss, feeling her respond with a sigh that seems to release all the tension she's been holding.

When we part, she smiles—a real smile that reaches her eyes. "We should probably get back to the exhibition."

"Probably." But neither of us moves. Instead, I take her hand, intertwining our fingers. "For what it's worth, I think we're creating something beautiful together. Something neither of us could create alone."

"Like your garden," she says softly. "A collaboration between structure and wildness."

"Exactly like that." I stand, pulling her gently to her feet. "And I can't wait to see what grows from it."

As we walk back toward the exhibition, hand in hand, I feel a newfound certainty about us.

There will be more moments of doubt, more challenges to navigate.

But underneath it all is something solid: a connection built on seeing and appreciating each other's true nature, not despite our differences but because of them.

Jasmine squeezes my hand as we approach the garden where her wildflower paintings glow in the evening light, surrounded by the real plants that inspired them. "Thank you," she says simply. "For seeing me."

"Always," I promise, knowing that whatever grows between us will have both strong roots and the freedom to bloom in its own unique way.