Page 16 of Where the Roses Bloom

“I’m good either way,” I muttered, earning a low chuckle that curled down my spine like a hot breeze.

He led me back through the house with easy strides, and I followed, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders moved, the way his jeans clung to his hips. The hallway narrowed, and I realized just how big this place really was. Howmanyrooms were sleeping…holding secrets just waiting to be explored.

“This one used to be my grandma’s sewing room,” he said, pausing at a door halfway down. “She always said the light was best in here. East-facing. Mornings’ll wake you up gentle.”

He opened the door, and I stepped inside.

It was small, but not cramped. A full-size bed with a faded quilt took up most of the space, and a low dresser sat beneath the window. The curtains were gauzy and pale, filtering the light until it felt like stepping into a jar of honey. There was a vase of dried flowers on the nightstand—lavender and yarrow—and the faintest trace of rosewater in the air.

“You’ll be comfortable,” he said quietly behind me. “She always made sure her guests were.”

I turned to thank him—and froze.

Because he was standing just inside the doorway now, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off his bare chest. His eyes flicked down to my mouth, then back up again, and for a second, the air stretched thin between us.

Something shifted. I didn’t know what it was, only that if he took one more step, I might forget every reason I’d ever had to be careful.

But he didn’t.

He cleared his throat and stepped back, giving me a little more space. “I’ll let you settle in,” he said, voice rougher now. “Kitchen’s stocked if you want somethin’ to eat. I’ll be down in the library and, unless you need somethin’, I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Dinner?” I asked. “I didn’t realize a meal plan was included.”

He grinned. “Grandma Hazel would be ashamed if she found out I wasn’t cooking for my guests,” he said. “I prefer to play it safe.”

The he turned and left, giving me the privilege of looking at his muscular back as he walked away.

I closed the door behind him, exhaling slow.

The room settled around me like a sigh.

I dropped my duffel at the foot of the bed and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in—the way the sunlight kissed the quilt, the slight creak of the floorboards beneath my feet. There was something so gently sacred about the space, like it hadn’t been used in years but had waited patiently for someone to return.

Or maybe not someone.

Maybe me.

The faint scent of rosewater caught me again, stronger thistime, rising from somewhere I couldn’t quite place. Not the vase of dried lavender and yarrow—that was something earthier. This was sweet. Lush.

I moved toward the dresser, running my fingers over the smooth wood, and that’s when I felt it.

A shift.

Like someone had exhaled right behind me. Not loud. Not sudden. Just warm and close, brushing the skin at the back of my neck like a whisper.

I froze.

“Hello?” I said softly.

Nothing.

No wind through the open window, no boards creaking in reply. Just the feeling of being watched by something older than I could name—and the curious, quiet sense that it wasn’t unkind.

That it wasn’t alone.

I rubbed my arms and looked toward the window, where the lace curtain fluttered gently inward, tugged by a breeze I hadn’t felt until now.

The smell of roses swelled again.