Page 66 of When Wildflowers Bloom

“Lead the way,” he says easily, crouching down to pet the dog who is now sprawled out on a big pillow on the floor.

“So, you can see, we are standing in the living room, and I have a Greg Hawkins original coffee table,” I say with mock formality, relaxing just a little. My style is clean and modern—cream-colored walls, neutral tones everywhere, and a couple house plants. As someone who perpetually errs on theside of anxious, I designed the space with my nervous system in mind. The table my dad made for me is a honey-stained wood and sits asymmetrically next to my tan couch. Other than the recent addition of my colorful bowls and mugs, it’s the most unique thing in my house.

For some reason, as I watch him look around, I become hyperaware that while his house has pictures hanging on the walls, mine are bare. Other than one photo of my dad and I from my college graduation that sits on a shelf, nothing. Someone walking in here might think it’s a short-term rental property more than my home of nearly a decade.

We move to the attached kitchen, equally tidy, neutrally colored, and as obviously void of humanity as the living room. White cabinets, white backsplash, butcher block counters, essential oil diffuser puffing the scent of vanilla into the air. The only pops of color are a vase Veda gave me that has flowers in it and my calendar wall that has sticky notes and highlighted dates.

Bo instantly goes to the calendar, giving me a look of,Seriously?

I snort, standing across the room from him. “Guess you didn’t see this last time. Did you expect anything different?”

He vibrates with a laugh. “This looks like a command center for an entire country.”

“Does not,” I argue, stepping next to him and admiring my own organization. “Look.” I point to a list. “You can see what I’m eating for dinner three weeks from now and what class I’ll be taking at the gym. Isn’t that satisfying?”

He blinks with disbelief at me before looking back at the calendar and points to a date at the end of September where I’ve writtenForever Fun Clay School. “What’s this?”

“Gran offered to teach the other oldies a clay lesson,” I say with a smile.

He laughs on an exhale, then his tone turns serious. “How does she seem?”

A pit forms in my stomach with the question. I can’t lie to him, but I also can’t break Veda’s word. “Hmm…” I pause, noticing my hands are shaking and gluing them to my hips, clearing my throat before I add, “Like she’s almost eighty and annoyed by my food.”

He nods silently.

“Why do you ask?”

He shrugs. “Just wondering. Sheisalmost eighty—I worry.” His gaze finds mine. “I’m glad she has you there. She loves you.”

Guilt bleeds into every vein with what he says, and I blink my eyes away. I tell myself I’m not lying, but it feels like I am. I don’t even know what’s wrong with Veda, so really, I’m not actually keeping anything from him. Just speculations. Concerns. A feeling I can’t name. Whatever she’s hiding from me, I’m also hiding from him. The second she told me not to tell Bo, my bed was made. Not just ethically, but legally, I can’t tell him whatever she shares.

“If Veda loves me, I’d hate to see how she’d yell at me if she didn’t like me,” I say, attempting to pull myself from my thoughts.

He chuckles softly, fingers interlacing with mine as he takes a step. “This calendar is riveting, but show me the rest of your house.”

Happy for the change of subject, I lead the way.

There are only three other rooms in my house: a hall bathroom, a guest bedroom, and the master bedroom. The first two are easy, but when I open the door to my bedroom, it’s a flirt with disaster. A danger zone. Four walls that suck the moisture from my mouth.

He didn’t show me his bedroom, so I have no idea what to show him of mine.

“So this is my bedroom,” I say, shaky, stalled out at the doorway and not daring to step inside.

He drops my hand and walks in without me. Like everything else, it’s in shades of cream and tan with a plant in the corner. Instead of a bright lamp, there’s a soft red-orange glow of two salt lamps.

Seeing him next to my bed makes me want to march over to him, shove his broad shoulders, and watch him drop onto my mattress. Instead, I stay in the doorway, gripping the doorframe as though I physically need to keep myself from moving.

His fingertips graze across my blanket; both my throat and thighs pinch shut.

“What’s this?” he asks, lifting a book off my nightstand.

My cheeks heat instantly.Mabel’s lumberjack book.

This is enough to make me move.Fast.

I rush over to him and reach for it. “It’s Mabel’s!” I shout, trying to snatch it out of his hand. He pinches his fingers around it, amused look on his face as he waves it over my head. “Bo, I’m serious. It’s nothing—”

“If it’s nothing, why does it matter if I look?”he teases.

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