Page 5 of Where the Roses Bloom (Gospels & Grimoires #1)

Rhett

I was still thinking about my run-in with Willow when I headed over to Beau’s place, sky bleeding orange behind the pecan trees. I got out of the car and was instantly met by Milo, Beau’s wildly exuberant golden retriever—who tried to tackle me and knock the cooler out of my hands.

Beau did absolutely nothing to stop it.

He never did.

My little brother was out in the driveway, sleeves rolled up and head ducked under the hood of an old Ford pickup that hadn’t run right since Easter.

Sweat slicked the back of his neck, darkening the collar of his tee, and the radio on the porch was playing Dolly Parton—our mom’s favorite before she passed, and now Beau’s favorite, too.

“You bring beer?” he asked without looking up.

“‘Course I did.”

I popped the cooler open and handed him one. He took it, cracked it, and muttered a thank-you before going right back to messing with the engine. I leaned against the side of the truck, sipping mine in silence for a while, listening to the cicadas start to sing.

Eventually, he said, “You’re quiet. That usually means one of two things.”

“Yeah?”

“Either you’re pissed…or you’re thinkin’ about a woman.”

Milo let out a low woof from where he was chewing a rag near the porch, like he had an opinion too. Beau knew better than anyone that I wasn’t thinking about women very often.

But tonight…well, I didn’t answer.

He glanced at me, then smirked. “So. Which one is it?”

I stared into my beer like it might give me a script. “She’s still at the motel.”

Beau raised a brow. “Willow?”

I nodded, slow. “Ran into her at the library.”

“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’s about 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 like you’re doin’ her a favor. You offer her a 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.

Beau grabbed my phone off the cooler before I could think to stop him.

“Don’t worry,” he said, thumbs already moving. “I’m not gonna write poetry. I’m just askin’ if she wants to help an old house grow something new.”

He turned the screen so I could see what he wrote:

hey, this is beau—rhett’s brother. we got to talkin tonight and we were wonderin if you might wanna help him fix up the old place a bit? room and board in exchange for some elbow grease and maybe a little garden magic.

“Too much?” he asked.

I stared at the message. It wasn’t how I would’ve said it. But it worked.

“Send it.”

Beau tapped the screen and tossed the phone back into my lap.

I didn’t have time to regret it, because thirty seconds later it buzzed with a reply.

depends on how haunted the house is…

but yeah. I’d love to.

The breath left my lungs like a prayer.

Beau slapped a hand on my shoulder. “Guess you better clean out the guest room.”

I didn’t answer.

Because my heart was already ahead of me—beating faster than it had in years.