Page 6 of Where the Roses Bloom (Gospels & Grimoires #1)

Willow

Gravel crunched beneath my tires as I pulled up to the Ward house, my little Bug wheezing like it was grateful the journey was over. I parked just shy of the wraparound porch, popped the door open, and stepped out into air that smelled like honeysuckle and sawdust.

It didn’t feel real.

Rhett had texted me last night, saying there was a room if I wanted it. Said I could help with the garden, that the house needed more hands than his.

It wasn’t charity, he said. It was a trade.

But it still felt like something more. Welcoming—like a door being opened.

I stood there for a second, clutching my duffel and trying to convince myself I wasn’t reading too much into anything. I was just helping him out. Just sleeping in a room he wasn’t using.

Just…moving into the house of the man I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since I first found myself in town.

No big deal.

Even Delilah had said it wasn’t a big deal when I ran into her at the library and told I’d found a place…sarcastically, of course.

The porch steps creaked as I made my way up, and the door was already open—just enough to say come in, if you dare.

Inside, the air was cooler, still carrying the scent of cedar and rain and something faintly herbal—like rosemary tucked into the walls.

The house was old, yes, but not decaying.

Just…resting. Like it had been waiting for someone to wake it up.

Kinda like me.

I wandered through the house slowly, tracing my fingers along the doorframes, peeking into rooms like I might scare them off if I looked too fast. Everything was touched by age but not neglect—scratched floorboards, peeling paint, sun-faded curtains.

But it felt lived in. Loved, even. Like the house had stories it wanted to share, if someone would just listen.

A soft thud echoed down the hall.

Then another. And another—rhythmic, steady, like a heartbeat made of hammer and nail.

I followed the sound.

Past the kitchen, through a narrow hall lined with old photos—black and white portraits in oval frames, half of them tilting on their hooks.

I paused at one that must have been Rhett’s grandmother with the kids—Rhett, four boys that all looked like miniature versions of him, and a redhead that couldn’t have been anyone but Delilah, sticking her tongue out and flipping off the camera.

The hammering stopped. Then started again.

I pushed open a door that had been left ajar and stepped into a room that made me suck in a quiet breath.

A library.

The walls were lined with bookshelves—some finished, some still raw wood waiting to be painted.

A ladder leaned in one corner, and there were stacks of books everywhere: on the floor, on the window seat, even balanced on top of an old typewriter like it was guarding them.

The air smelled like cedar and old paper and something sweet, like maybe a candle had been burning earlier.

And there, half-shadowed by morning light pouring through the big bay window, was Rhett.

Shirtless.

He was crouched in front of a half-built set of built-ins, hammer in one hand, the other bracing a long plank against the frame.

His back was to me, muscles flexing with every movement, his skin damp with sweat that made his shoulders gleam.

There was sawdust in his hair and a pencil tucked behind his ear, and he didn’t even notice I was there.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

I’d never seen anything prettier.

I mean…I’d seen plenty of men. I’d been to a male strip club for a couple of bachelorette parties. But Rhett Ward…? He was something else.

I sucked in a breath without meaning to, and his head turned.

His eyes caught mine, and everything inside me stilled.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t scramble for a shirt or crack a joke. He just rose slowly to his full height, sweat-slick and golden in the morning light, and looked at me like I was the one who had caught him—like I was the one worth watching.

“You found the library,” he said.

“I heard a noise,” I replied, breathless despite the lack of exertion. “Thought maybe the house was haunted.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “If it is, I reckon it’s the good kind. The ones that keep you company instead of keepin’ you up.”

I swallowed, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. “It’s beautiful. The shelves. All of it.”

“It’s gettin’ there,” he said, glancing back at the wall he’d been working on. “House came with good bones, but it’s been sleepin’ a long time.”

“Maybe it just needed someone to wake it up.”

His eyes flicked back to mine at that, sharp—but not cold. Never cold.

“You been lookin’ long?” he asked.

I stuttered. “Um…at you?”

He snorted. “No, darlin’… for me.”

“Oh,” I breathed, cheeks bright pink. “No. I just got here.”

His mouth quirked like he almost believed me.

“Well,” he said, sliding the hammer onto the shelf and wiping his hands on the rag tucked in his waistband. “Suppose I should show you your room, then. Unless you wanna keep standin’ there, watchin’ me sweat.”

I flushed, embarrassed—and okay, maybe a little thrilled.

“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.

How many rooms 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 this time, 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.

I stood still for a moment longer, letting the feeling wash over me. Then I crossed to the bed, unzipped my duffel, and began unpacking.

Like maybe I wasn’t just visiting anymore.

A dress hung itself a little straighter when I placed it on a hanger. A book I hadn’t cracked open in months landed perfectly on the bedside table.

The room was helping me settle in.

“Okay,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice light. “Let’s see what you’re made of, Ward house.”

The silence didn’t answer.

But I swear it smiled.