Chapter 15 Bloom and Grow
Olivia：POV
Saturday morning arrived with irritating cheerfulness—blue skies, chirping birds, and all that picture-perfect bullshit that makes you feel guilty for wanting to stay in bed.
I glared at my phone, re-reading Blake's text with the address to his precious Bloom Haven garden center. Of all the ways to spend my weekend, playing in dirt hadn't even made my list.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, pulling on jeans and a simple t-shirt. My "community service" for Blake's bruised ego was starting today, and I was already regretting our agreement. But a deal was a deal, and apparently, I needed to learn how to keep my hands to myself when drunk.
I stopped at Verve Coffee on the way, ordering Blake's favorite—an americano with an extra shot. I couldn't remember how I knew his coffee order, but somehow it was filed away in my brain alongside other useless information like my third-grade teacher's birthday and all the lyrics to "Baby Got Back."
The GPS led me to what looked like a hidden paradise just outside the city limits. The sign reading "Bloom Haven" was tasteful and understated, much like the man himself.
I pulled into the parking lot, surprised by the impressive scale of the operation. This wasn't some hobby garden—it was a legitimate business spanning what looked like at least three acres of meticulously maintained grounds.
Four large greenhouses with gleaming glass panels stood in a neat row, surrounded by outdoor gardens bursting with color—vibrant purples of lavender, fiery reds of dahlias, and delicate pinks of peonies all arranged in harmonious patterns.
But as far as I could see, roses still seemed to take up half the space.
A middle-aged woman with gray-streaked hair approached as I stepped out of my car. "You must be Olivia!" she greeted me with unexpected warmth. "I'm Margaret, Blake's head gardener."
"Nice to meet you," I replied, surprised by her enthusiasm. Did Blake tell everyone I was coming?
"Can I get you anything? Breakfast? We always have pastries in the break room," Margaret offered, already ushering me toward a rustic building.
"I've already had breakfast, thanks. I brought coffee." I held up the cup as evidence.
"Let's get you changed first. Those pretty shoes won't survive ten minutes in the greenhouse." Margaret led me toward another building. "We have spare work clothes for volunteers."
As we walked, I noticed about a dozen workers scattered across the grounds—some pruning rose bushes with expert precision, others carefully watering young seedlings, and a couple unloading supplies from a small truck. Two younger staff members passed us, giving me curious glances. I caught snippets of their whispered conversation.
"That's her—Blake's girlfriend..."
"...first time he's ever brought someone here..."
"...said she's brilliant at her job, runs product development at some cosmetics company..."
I nearly tripped over my own feet. Girlfriend? Did they misunderstand?
Margaret opened the door to a small changing room. "Everything you need should be in there. I'll wait outside."
Inside, I found neatly folded overalls and boots in approximately my size. As I changed, I tried to process what I'd overheard. Why would his employees consider me as his girlfriend?
When I emerged, Margaret was waiting with an appreciative smile. "You look wonderful, dear. Simple clothes suit you beautifully."
"Thanks," I replied, feeling slightly self-conscious. "So, where's Blake?"
"He's already in the main greenhouse. Follow me."
We walked through a series of connected greenhouses, each more impressive than the last. The air was humid and fragrant with earth and blooms.
Exotic orchids in shades of magenta and electric blue hung from suspended planters, while tables lined with seedlings stretched the length of the space.
The third greenhouse housed what appeared to be experimental crossbreeds—roses with unusual color combinations and patterns I'd never seen before.
Through a glass door, I finally spotted him—Blake Westwood, heir to a software empire, kneeling in dirt, carefully pruning what looked like rose bushes with deep crimson blooms so rich they almost appeared black in the center.
Three other gardeners worked nearby, each giving him a respectful berth as if acknowledging this was his personal project.
He was completely absorbed in his work, those long fingers gently handling the plants with unexpected tenderness. His brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously removed dead leaves and shaped the bushes. It was... not what I expected.
"Could you hand me that coffee?" I asked Margaret quietly, not wanting to break Blake's concentration.
She passed it to me with a knowing smile before discreetly backing away. I approached Blake, who still hadn't noticed me.
"I'm here," I announced. "Coffee's getting cold."
He looked up, momentarily startled, then smiled.
"You remembered," he said, standing up and pulling off his gardening gloves.
I shrugged. "Hard to forget when you complain about bad coffee so dramatically."
Blake reached for the cup, his fingers brushing against mine and lingering there perhaps a moment too long. He seemed to be studying my hand, his thumb lightly tracing over my knuckles before finally taking the coffee.
Weird, but I chose not to comment. Maybe he was checking for dirt or something.
"Thank you," he said, taking a long sip. "Perfect."
"So," I gestured around, "quite the operation you've got here."
"Come on," he said, smiling again. "I'll show you where we'll be working today."
We walked through rows of plants I couldn't name until we reached a section with newly prepared soil beds, roughly half the size of a basketball court, marked off with twine.
"This is where we'll plant the specialty roses I've been developing," Blake explained, his voice animated with genuine passion. "Don't worry about getting tired. I'll be working alongside you the whole time."
As he described the planting process, I found myself watching his face rather than listening to his words. This was a side of Blake Westwood I'd never seen before—earnest, passionate, knowledgeable.
"These flowers are beautiful," I said, gesturing to the surrounding blooms. "You've really taken care of them."
"That's what you do with things you love," he replied simply. "You nurture them, give them what they need to thrive, and protect them when they're vulnerable."
He looked at me with those intense eyes and said, "I'll cherish my future partner just like this. Love is a lot like gardening - you nurture them daily, watching them bloom into something even more beautiful than before."