Page 33 of Where the Roses Bloom

Rhett’s hand slid up my back again. “Sorry about Silas.”

I glanced at him. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He’s just…not good with new people,” Rhett frowned. “Ain’t been for a while.”

“How long’s he been living in the parsonage?”

“Couple years. Moved in after—” Rhett cut himself off, jaw working. “After his fiancée died.”

That stopped me in my tracks. “Oh,” I whispered. “Do you…do you mind me asking how?”

“Snake bite,” Rhett offered. “She worked at the state park, it was a freak accident. Silas…he never really recovered from losing her, blamed himself.”

“Why?”

He frowned. “We lost our parents too, and…” He shook his head. “Nah. I don’t wanna scare ya.”

I frowned. “Well, you can’t really say that and expectnotto scare me…”

“It’s silly.”

I turned to face him fully. “Rhett.”

He exhaled through his nose. Looked away. Then back at me.

“Grandma Hazel used to say it was the curse,” he murmured, voice low like he was embarrassed even saying it out loud. “Said no Ward keeps what they love. That we’re lucky in a lot of ways—strong backs, good land, good looks”—he gave me the faintest grin—“but we lose what matters most. Always have.”

I blinked. “That’s…heavy.”

He nodded. “She swore it was real. That our daddy died ‘cause he loved our mama too much. That Silas’s girl got taken ‘cause he finally let himself believe in forever. And now…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t have to.

Because now he had his hand on me. Now I was standing in the center of this perfect, haunted little town with a Ward brother touching me like I was already his.

And I felt it—the weight of that. The promise in it. The danger in it.

I swallowed. “Do you believe it?”

“I didn’t,” he said, voice low, gaze dropping to where his hand circled my wrist. “Not until you showed up.”

Something about the way he said it—quiet, certain—sent a tremor through me.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I told him.

His eyes lifted to mine, dark and soft and searching. “You say that now.”

I cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble there. “Then stop looking at me like you’re already grieving.”

His arms came around me, pulling me in like he couldn’t help it. Like he’d been starving and I was the only nourishment. He buried his face in my neck, breath warm against my skin.

“I won’t lose you,” he whispered.

“You won’t,” I promised.

And then he kissed me—deep, desperate, the kind of kiss that claimed and begged and swore all at once. The kind of kiss that said this is mine.