Page 13 of Where the Roses Bloom

“She alright?”

“She’s fine,” I said, though the word felt too small for how she was…how I thought of her. “She’s been here a week now. Sounds like she’s stayin’ longer.”

Beau wiped his hands on a rag and finally turned to look at me fully, leaning his hip against the open fender. “And you’re tellin’ me this because…?”

“She’s lookin’ for work. And a place to stay. Motel’s clean enough, but it ain’t home.”

He took a swig of beer, considering that. “And you didn’t offer her the extra room?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s exactly that simple.” He gestured toward me with the neck of his bottle. “You’ve got space. She needs space. You’re not exactly runnin’ a boarding house out there.”

Milo padded over and dropped a grimy tennis ball at Beau’s feet, then headbutted his knee. I picked up the tennis ball and threw it across the yard.

Then I shook my head. “It’s not about the space, Beau. It’sabout the fact that I—” I cut myself off. “I don’t want her thinkin’ I’ve got an angle.”

“You mean like the fact you were head over heels for her the moment she rolled down her window?”

I shot him a look, but he just grinned.

Beau didn’t push—just raised an eyebrow and took another swig of beer like he had all the time in the world.

I stared out at the trees beyond his yard, where the sky was going violet at the edges and fireflies were just starting to flicker in the grass. I hadn’t talked to her since that first morning, no. Not until the library. And even then, it had taken me off guard—how fast it all came back. The way she looked at me like I was solid ground.

Like maybe I wasn’t just a man who’d lost too much to be worth saving.

“She’s been on your mind,” Beau said, voice quiet now.

“Yeah,” I admitted.

“She got that look about her. Soft, but not weak. Like she’s been through it and still knows how to bloom.”

I let out a rough breath. “I ain’t in any shape for blooming.”

“That’s the problem,” he said, like he already knew the punchline. “She’s not askin’ you to bloom. She’s just sittin’ there in the sun, waitin’ for someone to see her.”

I glanced over at him.

Beau grinned. “And you’ve been squintin’ toward the light every damn day since.”

“Christ, you’re dramatic.”

“You’re the one pining like a man with a notebook full of love poems.”

I snorted into my beer.

Beau tossed his rag over his shoulder. “So here’s what we do. You offer her the room, but not likeyou’re doin’ her a favor. You offer hera trade.She helps out with the house, fixes up the garden. She’s not charity. She’s useful.”

“She’s more than useful,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

Beau smirked. “I know. But you’re the one afraid to ask her to stay.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You are. And that’s alright. But you still want her in that house, don’t you?”

I looked down at the bottle in my hands, condensation running in thin rivulets across the label.