Page 8 of Love in Full Bloom (Zaftig Ever After #2)

CHAPTER SIX

BEN

I stand at the edge of my property, watching the morning light filter through the trees.

The land stretches before me—five acres of potential that I've been slowly transforming over the past two years.

Not for a client, but for myself. My own canvas where I don't have to compromise vision for practicality or budget constraints.

Jasmine's coming today. The thought makes me smile as I take another sip of coffee, surveying what she'll see. Will she understand what I'm trying to create here? Will she see past the unfinished sections to the possibility beneath?

It's been three days since our wildflower expedition, and I can't stop thinking about her.

About the way her eyes lit up when she showed me that stubborn rose growing through concrete.

About how her hand felt in mine as we walked back to the car.

About the painting she's creating that somehow blends her world and mine.

She's bringing color into my carefully structured life, and I'm still trying to understand what that means.

My truck's headlights catch movement at the end of the long driveway. It's Jasmine's car approaching through the early morning mist. I take a deep breath, surprised by the flutter of nervousness in my chest. This isn't a business meeting. We both know that.

Her car pulls up beside my truck, and she emerges wearing jeans and a light sweater the color of spring leaves. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a loose braid, with tendrils already escaping around her face. She looks both excited and nervous as she spots me.

"You found it," I call, walking toward her.

"Your directions were perfect." She smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Though I wasn't expecting quite so much... space."

"Five acres." I gesture to the surrounding land. "Most of it was cleared for agriculture decades ago, but I've been letting sections return to their natural state while designing others more intensively."

"It's beautiful." Her eyes scan the property, taking in the mix of open meadow, young woodland, and the beginnings of my more structured garden areas. "I can already see what you're trying to do here."

"Can you?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Creating dialogue between the wild and the cultivated." She steps forward, moving toward the nearest garden bed where native perennials grow in carefully considered groupings. "Showing how they can enhance each other rather than compete."

Her insight surprises me. That's exactly what I've been attempting, though I've never articulated it quite so clearly.

"Come on," I say, offering her the extra travel mug I brought. "Let me show you the whole place."

We walk side by side through the property, our shoulders occasionally brushing.

I explain my vision for each area: the meadow I'm establishing with native grasses and wildflowers, the small orchard of heritage fruit trees, the woodland garden where shade-loving natives grow beneath the canopy of mature oaks.

"This is the section I'm currently working on," I tell her as we approach a partially completed garden room.

Stone paths wind through plantings that are still taking shape, leading to a small circular patio.

"It's meant to be a contemplative space.

Somewhere to sit and observe the changing seasons. "

"I love how you've framed the view of the meadow beyond," Jasmine says, walking along the path. "It's like a living painting."

Her words please me more than I expected. "That's exactly what I was going for. Creating a series of vignettes that change as you move through the space."

She stops at the edge of the patio, turning in a slow circle to take everything in. "Your work is so different from what I imagined."

"What did you imagine?"

"Something more... formal, I guess. More controlled." She looks up at me with those changeable hazel eyes, now more green than brown in the morning light. "But this has soul. It feels alive."

Something warm unfurls in my chest at her words. Most clients appreciate my technical skill or the functionality of my designs. Few recognize the emotional intent behind them.

"That's the highest compliment you could give me," I admit. "I've been trying to move away from the more structured approach I use in my professional work. To create something that feels more... authentic."

"It shows." She reaches out to touch a native iris, its purple bloom nodding in the breeze. "There's heart in this garden."

We continue walking, and I find myself sharing more than just my design philosophy.

I tell her about growing up with a mother who loved gardens but had no time to create one, working long hours as a nurse.

How I started helping an elderly neighbor with his vegetable garden when I was ten, fascinated by the way plants responded to care and attention.

How landscape architecture combined my love of nature with my need to create order from chaos.

"What about you?" I ask as we pause by the small pond I've excavated. "How did you find your way to painting?"

Jasmine kneels to examine a clump of marsh marigolds blooming at the water's edge. "I've always painted. Even as a kid, I was constantly drawing the plants and bugs I found in our backyard." She looks up at me with a small smile. "My parents thought I'd grow out of it. Get a 'real job' eventually."

"But you didn't."

"No." She stands, brushing dirt from her knees. "I tried other things—worked in an office for a while, took some graphic design classes. But I was miserable. It wasn't until I gave myself permission to paint what truly moved me that I felt... right."

"The wildflowers."

She nods. "Everyone told me to paint what sells—landscapes, pretty garden flowers, things people want over their couch. But those overlooked plants kept calling to me. Their resilience, their determination to bloom whether anyone notices or not."

I see it now—the connection between her and her subjects. The same quiet determination, the same authentic beauty that doesn't demand attention but captivates once you notice it.

"I'm glad you didn't listen," I tell her. "Your work is powerful precisely because it's so personal."

A shadow crosses her face. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm just being stubborn. If I should try to be more... conventional."

The vulnerability in her voice touches something in me. I recognize that doubt—the question of whether following your own vision is worth the struggle when a more mainstream path would be easier.

"Conventional is forgettable," I say quietly. "What you create is memorable. It makes people see differently."

Her eyes meet mine, searching. "You really think so?"

"I know so." I step closer, drawn by the uncertainty in her expression.

"Since seeing your paintings, I've noticed wildflowers everywhere. Plants I've walked past a thousand times without really seeing. Since I met you, I notice wildflowers everywhere. You’ve opened my eyes to a kind of beauty I didn’t even know I was missing. "

The morning light catches the copper highlights in her hair, and I resist the urge to touch it. Instead, I gesture toward a rustic wooden bench nestled beneath a flowering dogwood.

"Hungry? I brought breakfast."

Her smile returns. "Starving, actually."

I retrieve the basket I prepared earlier—fresh bread, local cheese, strawberries from the farmers' market, and a thermos of hot coffee. We sit side by side on the bench, the dogwood petals occasionally drifting down around us like snow.

"This is perfect," she says, biting into a strawberry. "I usually just grab coffee and call it breakfast."

"That explains why you're always pouring coffee on strangers," I tease, remembering our first meeting.

She laughs, the sound bright in the morning quiet. "Only the ones who appreciate my paintings."

"A very select group, I'm sure."

"Smaller than you might think." Something vulnerable flickers across her face again. "Most people don't get it. They see pretty flowers, but they miss the point."

I watch her profile as she looks out across the meadow. There's a tension in her shoulders that wasn't there before, a slight furrow between her brows.

"What is the point?" I ask softly. "Beyond the beauty."

She's quiet for a moment, considering. "That there's value in the overlooked. That persistence matters. That finding your own way to bloom is more important than fitting someone else's idea of what you should be." She glances at me, then away. "That probably sounds silly."

"Not at all." I shift slightly, turning toward her. "It's why your work resonates so deeply. It's honest."

"Honest." She repeats the word thoughtfully. "That's what I'm trying for. But sometimes I worry I feel things too deeply. That I care too much about what most people overlook—like wildflowers growing in the cracks. That my passion is overwhelming, or that I’m just not practical enough."

The insecurity in her voice surprises me. How can someone so talented doubt herself so deeply?

"Jasmine." I wait until she looks at me. "Those qualities are exactly what make your work powerful. What make you interesting."

She studies my face, as though searching for insincerity. "Most men I've dated found it charming at first, then irritating later. My 'artistic temperament,' as my last boyfriend called it."

"Then they were fools." The words come out more forcefully than I intended. "Sorry. I just... I don't understand how anyone could see your passion as a negative."

A small smile tugs at her lips. "Says the man who's known me less than a week."

"Sometimes you recognize something valuable right away." I meet her gaze steadily. "I've built my career on seeing potential where others don't."

The tension in her shoulders eases slightly. She reaches for another strawberry, her fingers brushing mine in the basket. The simple contact sends a current up my arm.

"What about you?" she asks. "Any romantic disasters I should know about?"