Page 34 of Where the Roses Bloom
And I kissed him back like I already belonged to the ghosts.
CHAPTER 12
Rhett
Dark amberand gold stretched across the sky, pink clouds at the edges. The air had started to cool just enough to chase off the heat and humidity of the day, though the scent of hickory smoke and fried cornbread lingered on my clothes.
I looked over at Willow—barefoot in the grass, long chestnut waves loose around her shoulders, a pink sundress clinging sweetly and stubbornly to the curves of her hips—and I knew I couldn’t stay on that library lawn a second longer without doing something foolish.
So I touched her elbow and leaned in close. “C’mon,” I said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
She blinked up at me, then nodded without a single question where we were going. She just trusted me…and that stirred something deep in my chest, want and ache and hope all tangled together.
We left the crowd behind, heading down Main Street, where porch lights flickered on and the last of the kids chased each other through the emerging fireflies. Most of the shops had shut down for the night, but the diner’swindows still glowed soft yellow, the scent of butter wafting out.
“Where are we going?” Willow asked, her fingers brushing against mine.
I took her hand and squeezed it. “You’ll see.”
The street curved, dipping past the old train tracks and the overgrown garden lot where Mrs. Calhoun used to sell bundles of wildflowers. I walked us past the old feed store and the rusted gas pump that still bore my daddy’s initials, down the path where the honeysuckle grew thick and sweet. I didn’t stop Willow from pausing to smell the flowers, a relaxed sigh slipping past her lips.
And then we heard it—soft at first, the babbling of the creek ahead.
It was small enough that it didn’t have an official name, but the locals called it Foxglove Falls—due to the namesake flowers that bloomed all around the small waterfall in the springtime. People got paranoid about coming here at night as they thought the ghost of Isadora Stratham—the witch that had supposedly cursed the Ward family—haunted it…but I’d always found it soothing.
Even if her ghost was here, I figured she must like me.
Willow followed the sound, tugging me a little faster as the trees thickened and the fireflies grew bolder, blinking between the branches like the forest was exhaling light. She caught sight of the creek just as it came into view—tucked between a mossy bank and a tumble of stone, the water ribboned silver in the moonlight, spilling over the rocks in a gentle fall that hushed the world around us.
“Oh,” Willow breathed.
I didn’t say anything—just watched her walk barefoot to the edge of the creek, shoes dangling from one hand, her sundress swaying around her thighs. She knelt down to trail her fingers through the water, smiling like I’d sharedan intimate secret with her, like this whole place had beenwaiting for her.
The whole town felt like that…along with my home, my heart.
Just waiting for her, for years.
I let her have the silence for a beat before she stood up, then I moved behind her to slide my arms around her waist.
“You like it?” I asked.
She exhaled a deep sigh. “Rhett…there’s not a single thing about tonight that I haven’t loved.”
I chuckled, nuzzling her temple, breathing her in. “You ever slow dance under the stars, Willow Rhodes?”
She turned in my arms, smiling up at me with that sweet, startled expression she always got when I got romantic. “No,” she said softly.
“Good,” I said, drawing her closer. “Then I get to be your first.”
We fell into the rhythm of the music still echoing from Main Street, some slow country radio hit. She let me guide her, arms around my neck, her fingers playing with the hair at my nape like she didn’t even realize she was doing it. Our bodies moved slow and easy, chest to chest, the hush of the falls and the whistle of cicadas settling around us.
Willow laid her head against me, right over my heart. I didn’t know if she could feel how fast it was beating, but she sure as hell could’ve guessed. Every inch of her against me felt like temptation—sweet, slow-burning temptation.
“You’re good at this,” she murmured.
“Dancin’?”
“No,” she said, lifting her head. “This. All of this. The fireflies, the secret creek…the way you look at me like I might be made of magic.”
