Page 8 of Where the Roses Bloom

None of it felt modern. But it didn’t feel old either. Just…set apart. Steady. Waiting.

Waiting for me, maybe.

He pulled into the lot and parked. I hesitated, still clutching the coffee cup.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just trying to remember what dignity feels like.”

“Around here?” he said, opening his door and sliding out. “Nobody remembers that.”

The bell over the door—as expected—jingled when we stepped inside. It smelled like butter and coffee and something sweet just starting to burn—maybe cinnamon rolls, maybe caramel, I didn’t care.

I wanted to bathe in it.

With Rhett.

There were only four tables, three booths, and a long counter with a row of mismatched stools. A man in overalls glanced up from his paper, nodded at Rhett, and went back to his coffee like this was normal. Like gorgeous, broody men brought stray women in for biscuits all the time.

“Sit anywhere you like,” Rhett murmured, gesturing toward the empty booths.

I slid into the seat by the window and tried to make myself small. Rhett sat across from me, leaning back like he hadn’t found a sobbing stranger curled up like a raccoon at the end of his driveway an hour ago.

“Mornin’, sugarplum,” came a voice from the kitchen. “You’re late.”

I looked up just as a woman stepped out through the swinging doors. Short and soft-bodied with pink cat-eye glasses and a tattoo of a rolling pin on one forearm, she dried her hands on a towel and raised a brow at Rhett.

“Had a situation,” he said.

Her gaze slid over to me, a smile curling her lips. “Thought your granny taught you better manners than to call a lady a ‘situation.’ You got a name, darlin’?”

I blushed. “Um…it’s Willow, actually.”

“Of course it is,” she said with a soft laugh, like she wasn’t remotely surprised by the coincidence of my name. “I’m Mabel. You like your coffee with cream and sugar?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good girl. I’ll bring you a carafe and all the fixin’s.”

She was gone before I could even blink, stepping through the swinging doors to the kitchen. I watched after her for a moment before looking at Rhett, who had a bemused smile on his face.

“Do you bring a lot of strange, sad women in here?” I asked.

“Hm…” he trailed off. “Well, everyone here is strange, some are sad. But no…I don’t make a habit of bringing women here.”

He looked at me for a second too long after that. Not in a gross way—not like Carter used to. This was different.

Like he was studying me without needing to fix anything, just…seeing.

“First time for everything, I guess,” I muttered, trying to cover the way my cheeks went warm.

“Guess so,” he said.

Before I could figure out what that meant—or if it meant anything at all—the bell over the door jingled again.

“Well, well,” came a new voice. “If it isn’t the handsome handyman and his mystery girl.”

I turned just in time to see a woman with auburn braids and combat boots saunter in like she owned the place. She had a red leather-bound book tucked under one arm and lipstick the color of sin. The second she saw me, her eyes lit up andsparkled…like I was the most interesting thing that had happened in years.