Page 9 of Where the Roses Bloom (Gospels & Grimoires #1)

Willow

The rain woke me.

Not a storm. Just a steady, silver hush through the open window—soft enough to lull you back to sleep, if not for the scent.

Roses.

I blinked in the dark, covers pulled up to my chest, eyes adjusting to the faint pink glow spilling in from the sill.

The rose bush I’d planted in the little pot by the window—just a clipped starter from the garden by the sundial—had bloomed overnight. Not one or two tentative buds, but a cascade of blooms, blush-pink and dewy, spilling over the clay lip like they’d been waiting for me to dream.

The scent was everywhere. Sweet, wild, and full.

I sat up slowly, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood was cool beneath my feet, the hem of my nightshirt brushing my thighs as I padded to the window.

I reached out, fingers brushing the edge of a petal.

Velvet. Real. Impossible.

And then—I heard it .

Laughter.

Light, high, the unmistakable flutter of a child’s giggle.

My breath caught. I turned, scanning the room, but it was empty—just me and the roses and the hum of rain on the roof.

Another sound: the creak of floorboards…footsteps.

Not mine.

I grabbed my cardigan from the chair, pulled it on, and stepped into the hall, heart thudding against my ribs.

It didn’t feel like a nightmare. If anything, it felt like the kind of dream you don’t want to wake from—the air thick with the perfume of roses, the floor cool and solid beneath my feet.

I moved slow, afraid that if I breathed too loud, it might all vanish.

That I’d blink and be back in the motel bed I left behind a week ago, the hum of the mini-fridge louder than my thoughts.

But no. This was real. Or close enough to it.

The house creaked again. Not in warning—just a settling sound, like it was adjusting itself around me.

“Hello?” I whispered.

No answer.

Just the quiet patter of rain and the faintest glimmer of warmth down the stairs, like someone had left a light on in the kitchen.

I followed it.

The old wood moaned softly beneath each step, not scolding—just letting me know it was there. I kept my hand on the banister, my other wrapped tight in the cardigan’s sleeve, and told myself I wasn’t afraid. That even if this place was haunted, it wasn’t the dangerous kind.

It was the kind that missed someone.

And maybe, for now, that someone was me.

The light was real. Not flickering or cold like a dream might give you—but amber and steady, pouring out into the hallway from the kitchen doorway. I stepped closer, heartbeat steadying.

Then I saw him.

Rhett.

Back to me, shoulders tense, one hand gripping the edge of the counter like he might fly apart if he let go.

The other held a coffee mug, steam curling up into the air between his bare forearms. He was shirtless again—sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair still damp from the shower, like he hadn’t even tried to sleep.

Like he’d been waiting .

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked softly.

His shoulders shifted. Not quite a flinch—more like a breath too deep. He didn’t turn right away.

“Didn’t try.”

I stepped into the kitchen, drawn by the scent of coffee and the way the rain played softly on the windows. The light was warm and golden and suited him perfectly…lit him up like he was etched in sunbeams.

“I thought I heard something,” I said. “A laugh. Like…a child.”

That got him. He looked up, met my eyes.

His were tired, sure—but lit from within. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “The house does that sometimes.”

I had to do a double take. “Seriously?”

He nodded, lifting his mug to his lips. “Hazel used to say the house keeps company. Doesn’t like to be too quiet.”

“That’s comforting,” I said, half-laughing, half-shivering. “And a little terrifying.”

“Depends on how you feel about being watched,” he said, voice low, like it was meant for the walls and no one else.

My pulse kicked up. “You think it’s watching us now?”

“I think it’s listening .” He smiled into his mug. “Big difference. ”

I crossed my arms, cardigan sleeves slipping down over my hands. “So, what…this house has opinions?”

Rhett’s mouth tilted. “Don’t you think so?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. I didn’t know how to explain the way the rose bush bloomed or the laughter that hadn’t sounded cruel, just…

lonely. I didn’t know how to name the strange comfort I’d felt stepping into this kitchen at two in the morning to find him barefoot and half-dressed, looking like a story I’d dreamed too many times to believe in anymore.

“Want some coffee?” he asked, already reaching for a second mug.

“It’s the middle of the night,” I protested, smiling despite myself.

He shrugged one broad, golden shoulder. “We’re both up. Might as well keep each other company.”

I stepped forward without answering, feet silent on the worn tile. He poured carefully, like he always did—no spills, no rush. And when I reached for the sugar, he turned toward the same cabinet at the same time, body brushing mine.

We froze.

I had the sugar bowl in my hand. He reached for it anyway.

Our fingers grazed. The bowl slipped.

Porcelain shattered against tile, scattering white shards and a rain of sugar across the floor.

“Shit,” I breathed.

“Sorry,” he said at the same time, crouching down as I dropped to my knees.

We bumped heads.

Laughed—startled, breathless.

“Of course,” I said. “Of course we’d break the one thing with roses on it.”

His brow furrowed. “What? ”

I looked at the fragments. The painted pink blooms. “Same ones as the window.”

He stared at me for a second. Then back at the porcelain.

And slowly, his smile faded.

Something in the air changed—tilted, turned.

Our knees brushed.

And then, without a word, he leaned in.

And I didn’t stop him.

Our mouths met, sweet and sure. Rain on the roof. Sugar on the air. The broken bowl forgotten between us as we kissed in the kitchen, surrounded by roses and something more than ghosts.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss.

It didn’t test the waters, didn’t ask for permission in half-measures. It just was —full and hungry and slow, like he already knew what I tasted like and wanted to savor it again.

His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, fingers sliding into my hair, anchoring me as he tilted his mouth over mine and deepened the kiss with a groan that vibrated down my spine. I felt it all the way to my toes.

The sugar crunched faintly beneath our knees, but the porcelain didn’t cut me.

I wasn’t sure if I’d’ve cared anyway.

He kissed me like the storm might end any second, like I was something worth memorizing. Like maybe this house hadn’t kept company in a long time—but now it was wide awake and watching us fall.

I reached for him, hands skimming his bare chest, feeling the heat of him under my palms. He shivered when I touched him— shivered —and kissed me harder, pulling me closer until the cardigan slipped from my shoulders and I was nothing but soft cotton and want.

His other hand slid around my waist. My nightshirt bunched up as he pulled me closer, and I felt his breath catch as his hand found bare skin.

“I’ve been trying not to do this,” he murmured against my mouth. “All damn day…all damn week…fuck, since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Why?” I asked.

He pulled away just slightly, gazing into my eyes. Sometimes those eyes were dark enough that they almost looked brown…but right now, they were jade green. It was striking, magical.

“Because I knew,” he said quietly. “I knew if I touched you, I wouldn’t want to stop.”

My heart stuttered. The rain picked up outside, a gentle crescendo against the windows.

“Then don’t,” I whispered.

He didn’t.

His mouth claimed mine again, rougher this time, less careful.

One hand slid down to the small of my back, guiding me closer, until I could feel every line of him—warm, solid, wanting.

His other hand tangled in my hair as he kissed me like he meant to rewrite the story of his life with the taste of my lips.

I kissed him back with everything I had.

There was no fear in it. No hesitation. Just heat and the weight of something inevitable. My fingers curled into his shoulders as he drew me into his lap there on the floor, knees pressed to the tile, the broken porcelain scattered like rose petals around us.

The air between us pulsed with want. With a slow-burning ache that had been building since he found me in his driveway.

Since the biscuits…since the diner.

Since the very first time he looked at me like I was real and valued, in a way that Carter had never looked at me .

“You feel like a dream,” he murmured against my throat. “But every time I touch you, I remember I’m awake.”

I couldn’t speak. Could only nod…could only think that his poetry was probably pretty good after all.

And in that warm, witching-hour hush—beneath a roof full of old secrets, with rain on the windows and roses in the air—I let myself believe it too. That this was real. That something had brought me here for a reason.

And that maybe this was where I was meant to bloom.