Page 8 of Where the Roses Bloom (Gospels & Grimoires #1)

Rhett

It didn’t take long for me to realize inviting Willow to live here had been a mistake.

Not because she was messy or loud—she wasn’t. Not because she hovered or made demands—God, she was the opposite. Grateful. Helpful. Gentle.

No. The mistake was thinking I could live alongside her like she was just some girl renting a room and not the walking embodiment of every damn thing I’d ever wanted and told myself I couldn’t have.

She came down the back steps that morning wearing a tank top that clung to her in places I couldn’t stop looking and a pair of cutoff shorts that made it real hard to remember how to speak.

Her hair was piled up in one of those messy buns that wasn’t actually messy at all—little wisps curling down to stick to her neck with sweat—and she was barefoot, toes digging into the grass like she’d lived here her whole life.

“Where do you want me?” she asked.

Dangerous question.

Over the porch railing?

On the kitchen table ?

Clinging to my headboard?

I coughed and gestured toward the raised beds near the edge of the yard. “Start there. We’ll see what’s still got roots.”

She smiled. Bent to work.

And I watched her like a goddamn fool.

Every time she leaned over, her shorts rode up higher, giving me a front row seat to the shape of her ass, the curve of her thighs.

Her skin glowed in the heat, slick with sweat and sunlight, and I could see the outline of her bra through the fabric of her tank when she arched her back and stretched.

She hummed under her breath—nothing I recognized, just a tune—and wiped the sweat from her neck with the hem of her shirt like she didn’t know what that would do to me.

We didn’t talk much. Just worked side by side, cutting through the weeds, digging our hands into the dry, cracked soil.

“Feels like something’s sleeping out here,” she said after a while, brushing a strand of hair from her face with the back of her wrist. “Not dead. Just waiting.”

I nodded, too thirsty to answer.

She moved to the far edge of the garden, where the weeds grew thickest—tangled with creeping vines and long-forgotten mulch. I followed, hauling the spade over my shoulder.

She crouched low to the ground, tugging at something half-buried in the soil. It looked like stone, rough and moss-covered, with ivy curled around the base like it had been holding it hostage.

“It’s a sundial,” she said, brushing her fingers over the top. “Did you know this was here?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Hazel used to say it kept time better than the clocks. Said it ran on something truer than minutes and hours.”

Willow looked up at me, brow furrowed in that thoughtful way she had. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Still intact. The gnomon’s straight.”

She tilted her head. “But…that shadow’s not right.”

I glanced down. She was right. It was past noon, but the shadow fell toward morning.

Like time had stopped—and decided not to start again.

She pressed her palm flat to the face of it, eyes half-closed. “It feels like a spell,” she murmured. “Like this whole place is casting one.”

And before I could stop myself, I said it—low, and too honest.

“I think maybe you’re the one who’s casting a spell.”

She looked over her shoulder at me, and I thought I might combust right there among the creeping thyme.

But she didn’t tease. Didn’t laugh or look away.

She just smiled, soft and a little shy. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet,” I said. “But I’d like to.”

That was all we said.

That was too much.

By the time the sun started sinking low, the sweat had dried on my back, and my palms were caked with dirt. She’d gone in to shower, and I’d stood out there another five minutes just staring at that damn sundial like it might turn back time and let me rewind everything I’d just said.

It didn’t.

She was still on my mind when I finally turned in to shower, shutting myself in the master suite right down the hall from where I was certain she was still up, reading or journaling.

I could picture her there, cross-legged on the quilt, hair damp from the shower, scribbling something with her nose scrunched in concentration.

God, that nose. Those freckles. The way she bit her lip when she was thinking. The way she looked at me last night over her wineglass, like I was something warm she wanted to wrap herself in. Like maybe she was starting to feel the pull too.

I twisted the water knob as far as it would go, hot as I could stand, and stepped under the spray.

For a while I just stood there, hands braced on the tile, steam rising around me. Trying to shake the image of her from my head. Trying and failing.

She’d bent over the garden bed this afternoon and my world had tilted.

Every time she smiled, something unspooled in my chest. Every time she brushed her fingers through her hair, I wanted to step in, take that hand, kiss the dirt off her knuckles.

I wanted to pull her close and see if she’d make that same sound she made when she tasted my dumplings.

I let out a breath and closed my eyes.

My hand drifted down without much thought.

Just enough to wrap around myself, thumb dragging across the head.

A slow stroke. Then another. I imagined her standing there instead of me—watching.

Curious. Flushed and barefoot on the tile, hair falling down around her shoulders, mouth parted in that sweet little surprise she wore so often around me.

I bit my lip, leaned my head back, and let the water pour over me.

Not too fast. Not yet.

I wanted to draw it out—just like I would with her.

Not rushed. Not rough.

Nice…and slow…

I imagined her stepping into the shower, slipping behind me, warm hands ghosting across my back, her breath a whisper against my shoulder.

She’d press her mouth there first—soft, unsure—and I’d turn, just enough to see the flutter of her lashes, the flush blooming down her throat, those brown eyes that were almost gold.

I’d cup her cheek. Let my thumb brush the curve of her bottom lip.

She’d kiss it. Gentle.

And I’d fall.

My grip tightened, pace steady now, synced with the rhythm of her imagined sighs. I pictured her sliding her fingers through mine, guiding my hand—showing me how she wanted it. How she wanted me.

And God, I wanted to give her everything.

The curve of her waist under my palm. The way her thighs would part for me, instinctive and trembling. The softness of her belly, the slope of her collarbone, her voice when she came undone—sharp, sweet, a prayer turned to plea.

I imagined her whispering my name.

Just once. Just mine.

The sound of it, even imagined, knocked the breath from my lungs. I pressed my forehead to the tile, chest heaving, water beating down like it might scrub her out of me.

And my hand was still on my cock, stroking faster now as I pictured her.

Willow, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed.

Willow, lips parted as she moaned.

Willow, pressed between me and the shower wall, tits bouncing as I thrust my cock into her.

Willow, Willow…

“Willow…fuck!” I groaned.

The release came hard, sharp, a low groan caught between my teeth as I braced myself against the tile.

The water swept it all away—heat and tension and the ache I hadn’t let myself name.

I stayed there for a while, panting, forehead still pressed to the wall, the aftershocks chasing each other down my spine like thunder rolling out over open fields.

And still, all I could think was her.

Not just the curve of her hips or the way she smiled at me like she trusted me with something fragile—but the sound of her laugh. The quiet kindness in her voice when she talked about planting things. The way she said the word gnomon like she was reciting poetry and didn’t even know it.

This wasn’t just lust.

God help me—it hadn’t been for days. Not since the moment she’d told me she didn’t want to be a bother, and I decided I wouldn’t mind her botherin’ me for the rest of my damn life.

I rinsed off slow, every nerve humming. And when I finally turned off the water, stepped out into the steamy hush of the bathroom and caught my reflection in the mirror—flushed, spent, still half-hard just thinking about her—I knew the truth.

She was in me now—in the walls, the garden, the damn air.

And no matter how long I stood there, staring at my reflection, nothing was going to wash her away.