Page 17 of Where the Roses Bloom
I stood still for a moment longer, letting the feeling wash over me. Then I crossed to the bed, unzipped my duffel, and began unpacking.
Like maybe I wasn’t just visiting anymore.
A dress hung itself a little straighter when I placed it on a hanger. A book I hadn’t cracked open in months landed perfectly on the bedside table.
The room was helping me settle in.
“Okay,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice light. “Let’s see what you’re made of, Ward house.”
The silence didn’t answer.
But I swear it smiled.
CHAPTER 7
Willow
The house wasquiet by the time I finished unpacking. Golden hour spilled through the windows like warm syrup, gilding everything it touched—my unpacked books, the floral quilt, the little silver dish on the dresser where I’d laid my rings. I changed into an old flannel I’d stolen from an ex-boyfriend’s closet years ago, soft and worn at the elbows, and a pair of sleep shorts that hit high on the thigh.
No makeup. No shoes. Just bare legs and nervous energy as I padded toward the kitchen like I wasn’t already imagining what Rhett might look like when I got there.
I could hear him before I saw him—low music playing, the soft clatter of a pan being set on the stove, a hum of something that might’ve been a tune or just the quiet sound of a man thinking. I rounded the corner, bracing myself for casual?—
And lost every coherent thought.
He was standing at the stove, barefoot, in a thin white t-shirt that clung to his back and grey sweatpants that should have been illegal. His hair was damp from a recent shower, curling just a little at the ends, and his skin looked flushedfrom the heat of the water—or the heat of the room. I couldn’t be sure.
The outfit was diabolical in the best way. I couldn’t imagine he’d picked it out himselfunlesshe was trying to seduce me.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes raking down me in one long, unhurried sweep. Not rude. Just…thorough.
“You hungry?” he asked.
Oof…he hadno idea.
My mouth opened, but no words came out. Just a soft little hum of acknowledgment—because yes, I was hungry. Starving.
Though maybe not just for food.
“Yeah,” I managed. “I, uh…it smells good.”
He smirked, like he knew damn well he’d fried my brain. “Chicken and dumplings. My grandma’s recipe.”
Of course it was. The house probably handed it to him, carved into the walls or placed carefully in a kitchen drawer. Rhett Ward didn’t seem like the kind of man who learned to cook from YouTube. No, this was the kind of man who learned by standing beside a woman in an apron while she smacked his hand with a wooden spoon every time he tried to sneak a bite.
I hovered awkwardly for a second, trying not to stare too hard at the muscles moving beneath that t-shirt as he stirred the pot. “Can I help?”
He looked over, brow raised, and then nodded toward the stack of plates on the counter. “You can set the table. Everything else is handled.”
I stepped into the space like it was mine to borrow—barefoot, flushed, my thighs brushing together in that ridiculous way that made me hyper-aware of every inch of my own skin. The kitchen was warm and lived-in, the kind of place that hadseen big meals and loud mornings and probably a few fights that ended with apologies over pie.
“What needs doing around the house?” I asked as I pulled down two plates. “Besides fixing wobbly bookshelves and charming stray women into staying for dinner.”
He huffed a laugh. “Well, the garden, for one. That place is a mess.”
I looked up. “You have a garden? I didn’t notice the last time I was here.”
“Used to.” He leaned back against the counter, spoon in hand. “Used to be the pride of the county. People came from all over for help with their plants, their land, their bad luck. My grandma always said the garden gave back what you put in, if you were honest about what you needed.”
