Page 14 of Where the Roses Bloom
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.
CHAPTER 6
Willow
Gravel crunchedbeneath 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 intoher 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.
