Page 9 of Love in Full Bloom (Zaftig Ever After #2)

I laugh, leaning back against the bench. "Nothing dramatic. Just the usual story—too focused on building my career to maintain relationships. At least, that's what my sister tells me."

"The one who signed you up for the matchmaking service?"

"That's the one. Leah thinks I need someone to 'draw me out of my shell,' as she puts it."

Jasmine tilts her head, studying me. "Are you in a shell?"

The question catches me off guard with its directness. "I... maybe. I've always been more comfortable with plants than people. They don't expect conversation."

"And yet here you are, talking quite comfortably with me."

"You're different." The words slip out before I can consider them.

"How so?"

I look out across the property, gathering my thoughts. "It’s like we’re looking at the same landscape from two different vantage points. Where I see structure and form, you see emotion and story. But we're both looking at the same thing—the beauty in what others overlook."

When I glance back, she's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Soft. Open. Maybe a little surprised.

"That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," she says quietly.

"I find that hard to believe."

"It's true." She sets down her coffee cup. "People compliment my work or my appearance, but you... you see me. The way I think. What matters to me."

The morning sun illuminates her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek, the slight dusting of freckles across her nose. I'm struck again by how beautiful she is—not in a conventional, perfect way, but in a vivid, authentic way that makes it hard to look anywhere else.

"I like what I see," I tell her simply.

Her cheeks flush, and she looks down at her hands. "Even the messy parts? The insecurity and the overthinking and the obsessing over plants most people consider weeds?"

"Especially those parts." I reach over and gently lift her chin, bringing her eyes back to mine. "They're what make you real."

The air between us changes, thickens with possibility. Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. I lean forward slightly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to.

She doesn't.

Our lips meet softly at first, a gentle exploration. Her mouth is warm, tasting faintly of strawberries and coffee. When her hand comes up to rest against my chest, I deepen the kiss, drawing her closer. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat that sends heat coursing through me.

When we finally pull apart, her eyes remain closed for a moment, as though she's memorizing the sensation. When they open, they're darker than before, the green flecks more pronounced.

"That was..." she begins.

"Overdue," I finish, smiling.

She laughs, the sound slightly breathless. "I was going to say 'perfect,' but that works too."

I tuck a strand of copper hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. "I've wanted to do that since I saw you at the festival."

"Even after I spilled coffee on you?"

"Especially after that. Your horrified expression was adorable."

She groans, hiding her face against my shoulder. "Don't remind me. Not my smoothest moment."

I wrap my arm around her, enjoying the way she fits against me. "I liked that it wasn't smooth. It was real."

We sit like that for a while, talking quietly as the sun climbs higher.

I point out the hawks circling above the meadow, the subtle color variations in the new growth emerging throughout the garden.

She tells me about her painting process, how she often works through the night when inspiration strikes, losing all track of time.

Eventually, I stand and offer my hand. "There's one more section I want to show you. It's where I could use your input the most."

She takes my hand, allowing me to pull her to her feet. But instead of releasing it, I keep her hand in mine as we walk. Her fingers intertwine with mine naturally, as though we've been doing this for years instead of minutes.

I lead her to the farthest corner of the property, where a small stream cuts through a wooded area. Here, I've started creating a series of tiered gardens that follow the natural contours of the land, descending toward the water.

"This is the most challenging section," I explain, guiding her along a rough path. "I want to preserve the wild character while adding elements that draw the eye and invite exploration. But everything I've sketched feels too... constructed."

Jasmine walks slowly through the space, taking in the dappled light, the sound of water over rocks, the volunteer plants already establishing themselves on the slopes.

"What if you work with what's already happening?

" she suggests, crouching to examine a cluster of native violets growing near the stream bank.

"Look at how these violets have naturally colonized this area.

What if you enhanced that pattern, maybe adding some complementary native plants that would thrive in similar conditions? "

I kneel beside her, seeing the area through her eyes. "Instead of imposing a design, amplify the natural patterns."

"Exactly." Her face animates with excitement. "You could create little moments of surprise—a particularly beautiful rock positioned just so, a small sitting area nestled among existing vegetation, stepping stones that guide without dominating."

As she speaks, I can see it—a garden that feels discovered rather than designed. A space that honors the wildness while subtly enhancing it.

"That's brilliant," I tell her, genuinely impressed. "It's exactly the approach this area needs."

Her smile is radiant. "Really? You like the idea?"

"I love it." I stand, helping her up. "It solves the problem I've been wrestling with for months. How to intervene without intruding."

"That's what I try to do in my paintings," she says. "Show what's already beautiful without imposing too much of myself on it."

"Yet your perspective is what makes them special." I squeeze her hand gently. "Just like your perspective is exactly what this garden needed."

We spend the next hour exploring the stream area together, identifying plants already thriving there and discussing others that might complement them.

Jasmine sketches quick impressions in a small notebook she pulls from her pocket, capturing the quality of light, the movement of water, the relationship between different elements.

I find myself watching her as much as the landscape—the focused expression as she draws, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when concentrating, the graceful movement of her hands as she gestures to explain an idea.

There's a freedom in how she approaches the space, unburdened by the technical constraints that sometimes limit my thinking.

"What?" she asks, catching me watching her.

"You're changing how I see my own work," I admit. "Making me question assumptions I've held for years about what makes a successful landscape."

"Is that a good thing?"

"It's a very good thing." I step closer, drawn by the uncertainty in her expression. "It's easy to get stuck in patterns, to keep creating variations of the same design because it works. You're helping me break out of that."

Her smile returns, brightening her entire face. "Good. Because I'm pretty sure you're changing how I see my work too."

"How so?"

"You notice structural relationships I often miss—how plants interact with each other, how they create spaces together. I usually focus on the individual beauty of each flower. You're teaching me to see the larger composition."

The realization that we're influencing each other's creative perspectives deepens my sense of connection to her. This isn't just attraction or shared interests—it's a genuine meeting of minds that has the potential to help us both grow.

As the sun climbs higher, we make our way back toward the house—a simple cabin I've been renovating alongside the garden. It's still a work in progress, with exposed beams and unfinished walls in some rooms, but the main living area and kitchen are complete.

"Would you like to see inside?" I ask as we approach.

She nods, and I lead her up the porch steps. The cabin is modest but thoughtfully designed, with large windows that frame views of the garden and bring natural light into every room. The interior is simple—warm wood tones, comfortable furniture, open spaces that flow into each other.

"This is lovely," Jasmine says, turning slowly to take in the main room. "It feels like an extension of the garden."

"That's the idea." I move to the kitchen, filling the kettle for tea. "I wanted the transition between inside and outside to be seamless."

She wanders to the bookshelves that line one wall, examining the collection of volumes on landscape design, botany, and natural history. Her fingers trail over the spines, pausing occasionally to pull one out and flip through it.

"You have an amazing library," she comments, replacing a book on native plant communities.

"I'm a bit of a collector." I set out mugs and tea bags. "Knowledge is never wasted in this field. There's always something new to learn, some historical approach to adapt for contemporary use."

She moves to the large drafting table positioned near the windows, where sketches and plant lists for the stream garden are spread out. "May I?"

"Of course."

As the water heats, I watch her study my drawings—the careful renderings of topography, the detailed planting plans, the perspective sketches showing how the garden will look when mature. She examines each one with genuine interest, occasionally nodding as though confirming something to herself.

"Your technical skill is incredible," she says finally, looking up. "These drawings are beautiful in their own right."

"Thank you." I bring the tea to the small table near the drafting desk. "But they're missing something, I think. The emotional quality that would make them truly compelling."

"Maybe." She accepts the mug I offer. "Or maybe that's just not their purpose. They communicate information clearly and precisely. My paintings aim for emotional impact, but they'd be useless for actually constructing a garden."

Her generosity in seeing value in our different approaches touches me. So many people frame differences as deficiencies rather than complementary strengths.

"Still," I say, "I'd like to find a way to capture more of the feeling of a place in my designs. The qualities that can't be measured or quantified."

"Like what you're doing with your own garden here." She gestures toward the windows. "It has both technical excellence and heart."

"Because it's personal," I admit. "I'm not trying to please a client or meet a specific brief. I'm just creating what feels right to me."

"That's how I paint," Jasmine says, her eyes lighting up with recognition. "When I try to create what I think will sell, the work feels flat. It's only when I follow my own vision that it comes alive."

We sit together by the windows, drinking tea and sharing stories about our creative processes—the struggles and breakthroughs, the moments of doubt and inspiration.

The conversation flows easily, punctuated by laughter and moments of silent understanding.

I can't remember the last time I talked so openly with someone about my work, my aspirations, my uncertainties.

"I should probably get going soon," Jasmine says eventually, glancing at her watch. "I have a commission I need to work on this afternoon."

"Of course." I try to hide my disappointment. "Let me walk you to your car."

Outside, the day has warmed considerably, the morning mist long burned away by the sun. We walk slowly down the path, neither of us seeming eager to end our time together.

At her car, she turns to face me. "Thank you for showing me your garden. It's truly special, Ben. A perfect reflection of you."

"Thank you for seeing it that way." I step closer, drawn by the warmth in her eyes. "And for your insights about the stream area. You've given me exactly what I needed."

"I'm glad." She looks up at me, a question in her expression. "So... what happens now?"

The directness of her question makes me smile. "Now I'd like to see your studio. Your creative space. If you're willing to share it."

"I'd like that." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's not as impressive as all this, just the spare room in my apartment. But it's where the magic happens, I guess."

"Then it's important." I reach out to take her hand. "How about tomorrow evening? I could bring dinner."

Her smile brightens. "That sounds perfect."

I lean down to kiss her goodbye, intending something quick and light. But when our lips meet, the same electricity from earlier courses between us. Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, and I pull her closer, deepening the kiss. When we finally part, we're both a little breathless.

"Tomorrow, then," I say, reluctantly stepping back.

"Tomorrow." She gets into her car, but rolls down the window before starting the engine. "Ben? This was wonderful. All of it."

"For me too." I rest my hand on the car door, not quite ready to let her go. "Drive safely."

As I watch her car disappear down the driveway, I'm struck by a realization that should probably concern me but instead fills me with a quiet joy: in just a few days, this woman has become important to me in a way I didn't expect.

Her perspective challenges me. Her presence grounds me.

Her smile makes me happier than I can remember being in years.

I turn back toward my garden, seeing it with new eyes—her eyes. The wildflowers pushing through between my carefully placed stones. The volunteer saplings I've allowed to remain where they sprouted. The natural patterns I've enhanced rather than erased.

For the first time, I truly see the dialogue between structure and wildness that Jasmine recognized immediately. The conversation between what I've designed and what nature has contributed. The beauty in that collaboration.

Just as there's beauty in what's growing between Jasmine and me—something unplanned but promising. Something worth nurturing to see what it might become.

I smile to myself as I head back to work on the stream garden, her suggestions already reshaping my vision for the space. Tomorrow can't come soon enough.