Page 105 of Knot in Bloom
And honestly? Watching her boss around uncooperative plants while wearing my shirt is a pretty perfect way to start any morning.
“Having a productive conversation?” I ask, finally stepping into the humid space.
She startles, spinning around with wide eyes. “Caleb! How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear you threaten a chrysanthemum with eviction.” I move closer, enjoying the way her pupils dilate as I approach. “Rough night?”
“The temperature control had a midnight breakdown.” She gestures helplessly at the destruction. “But I should have caught it earlier, should have had backup systems in place. I have zero excuses now. No money stress, no equipment issues. This is pure, concentrated failure on my part.”
I examine the damaged seedlings, immediately spotting the real culprit. The digital thermostat Reid installed shows a steady 68 degrees, but I can feel the residual heat that means it spiked much higher overnight.
“This isn’t failure. Your thermostat’s having an identity crisis—wiring’s making it lie about the temperature.”
“Wait, really?” Hope creeps into her voice.
“See how the display reads normal but there’s condensation on the glass? Classic sign of temperature fluctuation the sensor isn’t catching.” I start sorting through the plants, checking which ones are genuinely damaged versus just being dramatic. “This is totally salvageable.”
Her scent brightens with relief. “You think they’re faking it?”
“Plants are tougher than people give them credit for.” I lift a particularly pathetic-looking seedling, examining the stem. “This one here? Still has good color at the base. She’s just sulking because she got too hot.”
Sadie moves closer, studying the plant with new eyes. “How can you tell?”
“Experience. And the fact that plants are terrible liars.” I add the seedling to my growing ‘salvageable’ pile. “But more importantly, I can teach you backup systems. Temperature monitoring, emergency protocols, early warning systems for when your greenery gets moody.”
“You’d really do that?” She looks up at me with those brown eyes that still make my chest tight. “Don’t you have your own work to worry about?”
“Little flower, I’d do anything to see you succeed.” The truth makes her scent sweeten slightly. “Plus, I like working with my hands. Especially when it means spending time with my favorite florist.”
“Your only florist.”
“My only everything.” I brush a smudge of dirt off her cheek, and she leans into the touch.
We work together for the next hour and a half. Me explaining soil chemistry while she asks brilliant questions that prove she understands plants on an instinctual level. Her natural talent amazes me—she reads greenery like other people read books, understanding what each plant needs just by looking at it.
But I’m hyperaware of every little thing. How she leans into me when examining root systems, her body fitting perfectly against my side. The way her fingers brush mine during transplanting, sending sparks up my arms. The gradual sweetening of her scent as the humid atmosphere wraps around us.
“This soil feels different,” she says, running the potting mix through her fingers. “Lighter somehow.”
“That’s the perlite Reid added for drainage.” I step behind her, close enough that my chest almost touches her back. “Feel how it doesn’t compact when you squeeze it?”
When I reach around her to guide her hands, she goes very still. Her breathing changes, becoming shallow and quick. I can smell the exact moment her arousal spikes, sweet and desperate in the warm air.
“Like this?” Her voice comes out breathless.
“Perfect.” My hands cover hers completely, fingers threading together in the rich earth. The simple contact sends heat straight through me. “You’ve got instincts that go soul-deep.”
She leans back against me, and I can feel her pulse racing where my wrist rests against her throat. “For gardening?”
“For everything.” I brush my lips against her ear, and she shivers.
The soft sound she makes goes straight to my cock. I can smell how much she wants this, wants me, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to spin her around and claim her mouth right here among the rescued seedlings.
“Caleb.” My name comes out as barely a whisper.
“What do you need, little flower?”
That’s when she breaks. Spins in my arms and fists her hands in my shirt, yanking me down for a kiss that’s hungry and demanding and everything I didn’t know I was desperate for. Her mouth moves against mine with an urgency that matches the spike in her scent.
