Page 6 of Love in Full Bloom (Zaftig Ever After #2)

CHAPTER FIVE

JASMINE

I nearly dance into my apartment, closing the door behind me with a gentle push of my hip.

The festival exceeded all my expectations—not just in sales, which were surprisingly good, but in ways I never anticipated.

I set my bag down and kick off my shoes, still feeling the lingering excitement of the day buzzing through my veins.

"Hello, plant babies," I murmur to my collection of green friends crowding the windowsills. "Your mom had quite a day."

I pull my phone from my pocket, looking at the new contact entry: Ben Thompson. My thumb hovers over his name, tempted to text him already, but I resist. Monday morning isn't that far away, even if it feels like an eternity right now.

Instead, I dial Elena.

"Spill everything," she demands by way of greeting. "How many pieces did you sell? Did anyone important see your work? Did you wear something besides that green dress?"

I laugh, collapsing onto my couch. "Hello to you too. I sold seven paintings, including the chicory and the wild rose. And yes, I wore the blue dress with the pattern you like."

"Seven! Jas, that's amazing! I told you people would connect with your work." Her voice brims with genuine excitement. "Any collectors I should know about?"

"A couple from Oakridge bought the rose painting for their sunroom. But that's not even the most interesting part of the day." I pause, suddenly feeling shy about sharing.

"What? Did Marcus show up? Did someone famous buy something?" Elena's questions tumble out rapidly.

"I met someone." The words come out in a rush. "A landscape architect named Ben. He really understood my paintings, Elena. Not just thought they were pretty, but actually got what I was trying to say about resilience and finding beauty in overlooked places."

"Wait, wait, wait. You met a guy? At the festival? Who actually appreciates your art?" The surprise in her voice would be offensive if it weren't so justified by my dating history (or lack thereof).

"He helped me secure my display when the wind kept knocking everything over. After I spilled coffee on him." I cringe at the memory. "But he didn't even care about his shirt. He was too busy looking at my meadow painting and talking about plant communities."

"Plant communities? Sexy." Elena's tone is teasing, but I can hear the genuine interest underneath.

"It was, actually." I feel my cheeks warm at the admission. "The way he looked at my work... it was like he was seeing me. The real me."

"So when are you seeing him again?"

"Monday morning. I'm showing him some of the places where I find my wildflowers. For his work," I add quickly.

"Mmhmm. For his work. Sure." Elena's smile is audible. "I want every detail after. And Jas? I'm really happy for you. You deserve someone who sees you."

After hanging up, I wander to my studio, pulling out a fresh canvas. The evening light streams through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. I don't usually paint at night, preferring natural morning light, but right now my fingers itch to create.

I set up my easel and squeeze colors onto my palette—rich greens, warm browns, vibrant purples, and golds.

No specific plan in mind, just letting the feelings of the day guide my brush.

As I begin laying down broad strokes of color, I realize I'm painting a garden.

Not a wild meadow this time, but something that blends structure with wilderness—architectural elements softened by untamed growth.

Organized paths winding through seemingly chaotic plantings that reveal their harmony only when viewed as a whole.

A garden that might exist in the space between Ben's world and mine.

My brush moves faster now, adding details—a stone bench nestled among tall grasses, dappled sunlight creating patterns across a path, wildflowers pushing between carefully placed stepping stones.

The painting takes shape beneath my hands, becoming something I've never created before—a vision of wildness contained but not constrained, of structure enhanced rather than diminished by spontaneity.

As I work, I catch myself smiling, remembering the way Ben's eyes crinkled at the corners when he looked at my paintings. The gentle confidence in his movements as he secured my display. The surprising softness in his voice when he said he'd enjoy my company.

My inner critic whispers: Don't get carried away. He was just being nice. He's interested in your work for his project, that's all.

But for once, I don't listen. The warmth I felt in our connection wasn't imagined. The way our hands fit together when we shook goodbye wasn't coincidental. The spark when our fingers brushed wasn't just in my head.

Was it?

I step back from the canvas, suddenly uncertain. My excitement dims as doubt creeps in. Am I reading too much into a professional interaction? Creating a romantic narrative where none exists?

I set my brush down and wrap my arms around myself. This is what always happens—I get carried away by possibilities, by what could be rather than what is. I build elaborate fantasies from the smallest interactions, only to be disappointed when reality doesn't match my imagination.

My phone chimes with a text, startling me from my spiral of self-doubt. I wipe my paint-smudged hands on a rag before checking it.

Ben: Just wanted to say thanks again for today. Your work has already sparked some new ideas for the Hamilton project. Looking forward to Monday.

A simple, friendly message. Professional. But then a second text appears.

Also, I can't stop thinking about your meadow painting. The way you captured the relationship between those plants... it's changed how I see the wild spaces I passed on my drive home.

I read the message twice, then a third time, a smile spreading across my face. Not just professional interest after all.

Me: I’m glad. That's exactly what I hope my paintings will do—help people see beauty in places they might otherwise overlook.

Ben: Mission accomplished. My drive home has never been so interesting. I spotted three different wildflower species I've been ignoring for years.

I laugh out loud.

Me: Careful. Next thing you know, you'll be the one painting weeds.

Ben: I’ll leave that to the expert. My talents lie elsewhere.

I hesitate before sending the next message.

Me: I started a new painting tonight. Something different for me—a garden that balances structure and wilderness. Your influence, I think.

The typing indicator appears, disappears, then appears again.

Ben: I’m honored. Maybe you could show me sometime. After our wildflower expedition.

My heart does a little flip.

Me: I’d like that.

Ben: Goodnight, Jasmine. Sweet dreams.

Me: Goodnight, Ben.

I set my phone down, feeling lighter than before. Maybe I wasn't imagining things after all. Maybe this connection is real—tentative and new, but real nonetheless.

I turn back to my painting with renewed confidence, adding touches of light and shadow, defining the spaces where structure meets wildness.

The garden takes shape beneath my brush, becoming more than just a fantasy—a possibility.

A meeting place between two different ways of seeing beauty in the world.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I paint without my inner critic whispering doubts in my ear. I paint with joy, with hope, with the simple pleasure of creating something that feels true.

And when I finally step back, brush in hand, I see something I've never created before—a painting that honors both the wild and the cultivated, finding harmony in their coexistence rather than conflict.

Just like Ben and me.

Monday morning arrives with perfect clarity—cool, crisp air and sunlight that makes everything glow.

I arrive at our meeting spot early, nervous energy making it impossible to sit still.

I've chosen my favorite jeans and a soft sweater in a shade of green that brings out the emerald flecks in my eyes.

Practical for scrambling through abandoned lots, but still flattering.

Not that I spent an hour deciding on this totally casual outfit.

When Ben's truck pulls into the parking lot, my heart does that ridiculous flutter again.

He steps out looking like he belongs in an outdoor clothing catalog, in faded jeans, sturdy boots, and a henley that stretches across his shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

His hair is slightly damp, as though he's just showered, and those laugh lines around his eyes deepen when he spots me.

"Morning," he calls, striding toward me with a travel mug in each hand. "I brought coffee. Peace offering in case you wanted to even the score from Saturday."

I laugh, accepting the cup he offers. "I think I still owe you a shirt."

"Forget the shirt." He smiles down at me, and I'm struck again by how tall he is, how solid. "I'm more interested in these secret wildflower havens you promised to show me."

"Then you're in luck. We have three stops planned, each one better than the last." I gesture toward my car. "We can take mine if you want. I know where we're going."

"Lead the way."

As we drive to the first location, conversation flows easily between us.

Ben tells me about the Hamilton project—clients who want a garden that feels like "living art" rather than a conventional landscape.

I share stories about finding unexpected beauty in forgotten corners of the city.

There's none of the awkward silence I usually dread on first..

. whatever this is. Not quite a date, but definitely not just a professional meeting either.

"Here we are," I announce, pulling into a small parking area near an old industrial complex. "Former textile factory. Abandoned for years before they started converting part of it into lofts."

Ben looks skeptical as we get out of the car. "This is your wildflower haven?"