Page 4 of Love in Full Bloom (Zaftig Ever After #2)

CHAPTER FOUR

JASMINE AND BEN

I juggle two coffee cups while attempting to straighten a painting that keeps tilting despite my best efforts. The morning breeze has picked up, just enough to be problematic for my display. Of course this would happen now, when my booth is finally starting to draw attention.

"Stay put," I mutter to the dandelion painting, wedging a small rock under its easel. "Just for a few hours, that's all I'm asking."

The festival bustles around me—musicians tuning instruments, food vendors calling out specials, children darting between booths with colorful pinwheels.

I've been setting up since dawn, arranging and rearranging my paintings until each one catches the light just right.

The coffee run was supposed to be quick—one for me and one for Zara when she stops by—but the line stretched longer than expected.

As I turn back to my display, I freeze. Someone is studying my meadow painting—the centerpiece of my collection, the one I poured my soul into finishing just yesterday.

Not just glancing, but truly looking, leaning in to examine details most people would miss.

He's tall with broad shoulders, tousled blond hair catching the sunlight.

His posture suggests complete absorption, as though the rest of the noisy festival has disappeared.

I hang back, watching him read the small description cards I labored over.

There's something different about the way he studies each painting—methodical but emotional, his expression shifting subtly as he takes in each piece.

My heart beats a little faster. This is why I paint—for that moment when someone truly sees what I'm trying to say.

A sudden gust of wind chooses that precise moment to sweep through my booth. Several smaller paintings wobble on their easels, and my carefully arranged business cards scatter like confetti. I lunge forward, trying to save everything at once while still balancing the coffee cups.

"No, no, no!" I yelp as my chicory painting tilts precariously. I make a desperate grab for it, but physics is not on my side. The movement sends one coffee cup flying from my hand, its contents arcing through the air in slow motion.

Directly toward the tall stranger.

I watch in horror as coffee splashes across the back of his light blue shirt, dark droplets speckling the fabric like an abstract painting. The empty cup bounces off his shoulder and rolls away, the perfect punctuation to my mortification.

"I'm so sorry!" I gasp, setting down the surviving coffee cup and rushing toward him with napkins I grab from my supply bag. "The wind just—and then the painting was falling—I didn't see you turn around!"

He turns, and I find myself looking up—way up—into the most startlingly kind eyes I've ever seen. They crinkle at the corners as he takes in my distress, laugh lines deepening. Instead of anger, I see amusement warming his expression.

"Well," he says, his voice deep and surprisingly gentle, "I was planning to introduce myself, but I didn't expect it to be quite so... memorable."

Heat floods my cheeks as I dab ineffectively at his shirt. "I've ruined your clothes. I'm so sorry. I was trying to save my paintings from the wind and didn't see you and?—"

"The paintings are more important than the shirt," he interrupts, glancing back at my display. "That meadow piece especially. It's extraordinary."

I stop my frantic dabbing, napkins frozen mid-motion. "You... like it?"

"Like is an understatement." He turns back to look at the painting again, seemingly unconcerned about the coffee soaking into his shirt.

"The way you've captured how those plants interact with each other—competing but also supporting—it's exactly how they behave in nature.

Most people miss that relationship entirely. "

I stare at him, momentarily forgetting my embarrassment. Most viewers comment on the colors or the composition, but he's noticed the ecological relationships I tried to convey. The delicate balance between competition and cooperation that allows these plants to thrive together.

"That's exactly what I was trying to show," I say, my voice softer now. "How they create a community."

Another gust of wind sends my business cards flying again, and we both instinctively move to catch them. Our hands brush as we reach for the same card, and I feel a tiny jolt of awareness at the contact. His hands are strong and tanned, with calluses that speak of outdoor work.

"I should probably help you secure these before we lose everything," he says, glancing around my booth with an appraising eye. "Do you have any weights for the easels? Or maybe we could angle them differently against the wind."

"I brought some rocks," I admit, "but clearly not enough."

He smiles, and something flutters in my chest. "Rocks are good. I might have something better, though." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small roll of what looks like gardening wire. "May I?"

When I nod, he moves to the first easel, quickly and efficiently securing it with the wire, creating an anchor that's both functional and nearly invisible. His movements are precise, practiced, as though he's used to working with his hands to solve practical problems.

"You came prepared for an art festival," I observe, watching him work.

He glances up with a smile that transforms his entire face. "I came prepared for a day outdoors. Habit from my job."

"Which is?"

"Landscape architect." He secures another painting, this time my wild rose. "I design gardens and outdoor spaces."

Suddenly his interest in my work makes perfect sense. "So you work with plants professionally."

"I do. Though I tend to focus more on structural elements—trees, shrubs, architectural grasses. The bones of a garden." He pauses, looking at my dandelion painting. "I've never given much thought to wildflowers. I've always considered them too unpredictable for designed spaces."

"That's exactly why I love them," I say, feeling a spark of passion warming my voice. "They don't follow rules. They find their own way."

His eyes meet mine, and something passes between us—a moment of recognition, perhaps. Understanding.

"I'm Ben Thompson," he says, extending his hand.

"Jasmine Carter," I reply, taking it. His palm is warm against mine, his grip firm but gentle.

"I know," he says, then looks slightly embarrassed. "I mean, I saw your name on the booth. And Krissa mentioned there might be a floral artist here."

"Krissa? From the dating agency?" The pieces suddenly click into place. "Wait, are you?—"

"Her client? Apparently." He runs a hand through his hair, looking slightly sheepish. "My sister signed me up. Said I spend too much time with plants and not enough with people."

I laugh, surprised by his candor. "Zara's been trying to convince me to sign up for months. She says I need to meet someone who appreciates my 'unique perspective.'"

"Well," Ben says, his eyes returning to my paintings, "she wasn't wrong about that part."

Another gust of wind rushes through the booth, but this time everything stays put thanks to Ben's improvised solutions. We both look around, satisfied, and I realize we're standing closer than strictly necessary, my shoulder nearly touching his arm.

"So," I say, suddenly aware of how easy it feels to talk to him, "what do landscape architects think about artists who paint weeds instead of proper garden flowers?"

His smile deepens, creating those crinkles around his eyes again. "This particular landscape architect thinks he might need to reconsider his definition of beauty." He gestures toward my meadow painting. "And maybe incorporate some of these resilient fighters into his next design."

"Really?" I can't keep the pleased surprise from my voice.

"Really." He looks down at me, and I notice the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, like shadows in clear water.

"Actually, I'm working on a project right now that needs something special.

Something unexpected. Would you..." He hesitates, then continues.

"Would you be interested in showing me some of the places where you found these wildflowers? I could use some inspiration."

The invitation hangs between us, filled with possibility. This isn't just professional interest—I can feel it in the way he watches me, waiting for my answer. There's something more here, something neither of us expected to find at an art festival on a windy morning.

"I'd like that," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "I know all the best forgotten corners where beauty hides."

His smile widens. "I'm counting on it."

As festival-goers begin to fill the pathways between booths, I realize I should probably be focusing on potential customers. But I can't seem to look away from Ben, with his coffee-stained shirt and wire-calloused hands and eyes that actually see what I'm trying to show in my work.

For the first time in ages, it’s like someone is looking past the surface and actually seeing me. Not just my art, but me—the person behind the paintings. The woman who finds beauty in overlooked places, who believes in resilience and wild, untamed growth.

And as Ben moves to help another painting that's starting to tilt, I find myself hoping that this unexpected meeting might be the beginning of something just as wild and beautiful as the flowers I paint.

I watch Jasmine chat with a potential customer, her hands animated as she explains something about her dandelion painting. There's a transformation that happens when she talks about her art. Her entire being lights up, her movements become more fluid, more confident. It's captivating.

The coffee stain on my shirt is already forgotten. I've worked outdoors long enough to know that clothes are just tools, meant to get dirty. What matters is what we create with our hands, our minds, our vision.

And what Jasmine creates is extraordinary.