Page 7 of Love in Full Bloom (Zaftig Ever After #2)

"Just wait." I lead him around the chain-link fence to a gap I discovered months ago. "The main building is being renovated, but they've left this back lot alone. It's like nature is reclaiming it inch by inch."

We slip through the gap, and I watch Ben's expression change as he takes in the scene before us.

What looks like a desolate concrete wasteland at first glance reveals itself as a testament to nature's persistence.

Wildflowers push through cracks in the pavement.

Vines climb the rusted remains of old equipment.

Morning sunlight catches on dewdrops, transforming the seemingly barren lot into something magical.

"This is where I found the wild rose in that painting," I say softly, leading him to a corner where, sure enough, a determined rose bush grows through a fissure in the concrete.

"Look how it's adapted to these conditions.

Smaller leaves to conserve water. Thornier stems for protection.

But the flowers are just as beautiful as any garden variety. "

Ben crouches down, studying the plant with professional interest that gradually shifts to something more like wonder. "The root system on this must be incredible," he murmurs. "Finding a way through all this hardscape to reach soil and water."

"That's what I love about it. The determination." I kneel beside him, careful not to tear my jeans on the rough surface. "It doesn't care that it's not supposed to be here. It just... is."

He looks at me then, something soft in his expression. "You see yourself in these plants, don't you?"

The observation catches me off guard with its accuracy. "I guess I do. My art isn't what people expect. It's not sophisticated or trendy. But it's authentic. It's mine."

"That authenticity is what makes it powerful." His voice is quiet but certain. "Anyone can paint pretty flowers. Not everyone can make people feel something when they look at them."

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. There's understanding in his gaze—not just of my work, but of me. Of the parts of myself I usually try to hide.

"We should, um, check out the other areas," I say finally, breaking the moment before it overwhelms me. "The morning light won't last forever."

As we explore the lot, Ben points out things I've never noticed—the succession patterns of different plant species, how certain flowers cluster together for mutual benefit, the way some plants prepare the way for others to follow.

His knowledge adds layers to my appreciation, helping me see the ecological stories behind the beauty I've been painting.

In turn, I show him details he might have missed—the perfect symmetry of a dandelion seed head, the way chicory flowers track the sun throughout the day, the subtle color variations in Queen Anne's lace that indicate different soil conditions.

"I've walked past places like this a thousand times and never really looked," Ben admits as we head back to the car. "I've been so focused on creating designed beauty that I missed the beauty already happening all around us."

"That's what my paintings are trying to say," I reply, feeling a surge of connection. "That beauty doesn't need our permission or cultivation to exist."

His smile warms me from the inside out. "Show me more."

Our second stop is the forgotten corner of Riverside Park.

There's a section where the maintenance crews rarely venture.

Here, native grasses grow tall among wildflowers, creating a miniature prairie ecosystem.

The morning dew still clings to everything, turning ordinary plants into glittering sculptures.

"This is incredible," Ben says, taking it all in. "The biodiversity here is probably higher than in the maintained sections of the park."

"That's what I thought! The butterflies and bees certainly think so." I point to where several monarchs flutter among the milkweed plants. "I come here to sketch at least once a week. The light is different every time."

We wander through the tall grasses, Ben occasionally stopping to examine a particular plant or take photos with his phone.

I find myself watching him as much as the landscape—the way his hands move when he's explaining something, the focused expression when he's studying a plant detail, the smile that appears when he discovers something unexpected.

"What?" he asks, catching me staring.

"Nothing. Just... it's nice to share this place with someone who appreciates it."

"I more than appreciate it," he says, his voice sincere. "You’re making me rethink what matters in my designs. I’m starting to value the unexpected, the wild touches I used to edit out. Making me question assumptions I've held for years about what makes a landscape valuable or beautiful."

The simple honesty in his words touches something deep inside me. No one has ever suggested that my perspective might change theirs in any meaningful way.

"Ready for the grand finale?" I ask, trying to lighten the moment before my emotions get the better of me.

Our final stop is my favorite—a small wetland area hidden behind a commercial development. A forgotten piece of land that most people would consider worthless, but which has become a thriving ecosystem of cattails, rushes, and water-loving wildflowers.

"The developers probably thought this area was too wet to build on, so they left it alone," I explain as we pick our way along a narrow path. "But look what happened when nature was allowed to take its course."

The morning sun creates a golden haze over the water. Dragonflies dart among the reeds. A great blue heron stands motionless at the water's edge, watching for fish.

"This is..." Ben shakes his head, seemingly at a loss for words. "I design water features for clients all the time, but nothing I've created has this kind of life, this kind of... soul."

"Maybe because you're trying to control everything," I suggest gently. "Sometimes the most beautiful things happen when we just create the right conditions and then step back."

He looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "That applies to more than just gardens, doesn't it?"

My heart beats faster at the implication. "I think so."

We stand together in comfortable silence, watching the heron successfully catch a small fish and take flight, its massive wings carrying it effortlessly across the water. The moment feels significant somehow—a shared experience that's creating something new between us.

"Thank you for showing me these places," Ben says finally. "For helping me see what I've been missing."

"Thank you for seeing it," I reply softly. "Most people just think I'm weird for finding beauty in abandoned lots and overgrown corners."

"Not weird. Visionary." His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with gentle pressure. "You see possibilities where others see weeds."

The warmth of his palm against mine sends a current up my arm. Such a simple touch, but it feels monumental. Significant. His thumb brushes across my knuckles in a small, unconscious gesture of intimacy.

"I have a garden I'm designing," he says, still holding my hand. "A private project on some land I own outside the city. Would you... would you want to see it sometime? Maybe offer some thoughts on how to incorporate some of these wildflower communities?"

The invitation hangs between us, clearly more than just a professional consultation.

"I'd love to." I squeeze his hand gently. "Maybe you could see my studio too. I'm working on that painting I mentioned—the one inspired by you."

His smile brightens his entire face. "It's a date, then."

A date. An actual, intentional date. The word makes everything real in a way it wasn't before.

As we walk back to the car, still hand in hand, I feel something taking root inside me—something fragile but persistent. Like a wildflower finding its way through concrete, determined to bloom against all odds.

Hope.