Page 15 of Where the Roses Bloom
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, evenbalanced 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’dbeen 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’…forme.”
“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.
