Chapter 15 Bloom
Olivia: POV
I stared at Blake, caught off guard by his sudden intensity. The way he talked about nurturing things he loved made my cheeks burn. Those dark eyes were studying me like I was some weird plant he'd just discovered.
"So, um, we were going to plant something?" I tapped his hand, desperate to change the subject. "Let's get started, flower boy."
Blake's face softened. "Flower boy? That's a new one." He pulled his gloves back on and nodded toward a table loaded with small pots, soil, and what looked like dormant rose bushes. "These are special ones I've been working on. They're tough but need careful planting."
As we got closer, I noticed how neat everything was—tools lined up perfectly, soil already mixed, pots arranged in exact rows.
"First rule," Blake said, handing me some gloves, "protect your hands. Roses have thorns for a reason."
"I'm familiar with things that look beautiful but can hurt you," I shot back.
Blake smirked. "Aren't we all?"
He showed me how to make a little mound of soil in the center of each pot. "The crown—this part here—needs to sit just above the soil line. Too deep and it'll rot; too shallow and it'll dry out."
I tried to copy him, but my soil mound looked like crap. Blake watched, trying not to laugh.
"Here, like this." Before I could stop him, he stepped behind me, his chest almost touching my back as he reached around to guide my hands. His fingers wrapped around mine, pressing them into the soil, fixing my sad little pile.
The heat from his body was distracting. He smelled like dirt and something else—cologne maybe, and fresh air.
"You're pushing too hard," he said quietly, his breath warm on my ear. "Gentle but firm, like this." He moved my fingers in circles, making the perfect spot for the plant.
"Got it," I said, my voice weirdly tight. I cleared my throat. "I think I can handle it."
But Blake didn't back up right away. His hands stayed on mine for a second before he finally moved.
We kept planting, and every time I screwed up—which happened a lot—Blake would swoop in with his "hands-on" teaching style.
When he reached around me for the third time, I finally spoke up. "You know, you don't have to baby me through every step. I catch on quick."
Blake gave me an innocent look. "Just trying to be efficient." His mouth twitched. "But if you want to do it the slow way..."
"I do," I said firmly, ignoring how empty it felt when he stepped away.
Surprisingly, I got lost in the work. There was something soothing about the repetitive motions—preparing the soil, positioning the plant, filling in around it, patting it down. The smell of earth was calming, and the greenhouse was warm and humid, like being wrapped in a blanket.
"This is actually pretty relaxing," I admitted, looking up from my tenth pot.
But Blake was gone. I looked around, confused, until I spotted Margaret at another table.
"He had to check something," she said with a knowing smile. "He'll be back."
True to her word, Blake returned a few minutes later carrying a tray with cut-up fruit and two bottles of water.
"Break time," he announced. "You've earned it. These look great."
We sat on a bench near an open part of the greenhouse where a breeze cooled things down. I bit into a slice of watermelon, suddenly realizing how thirsty I was.
"So," I asked between bites, "what made you open a garden center? Not exactly what I'd expect from a Westwood."
Blake's expression softened. "I've always loved plants. They're honest—they respond directly to how you treat them." He took a drink before continuing. "After my accident, I needed something meaningful that wouldn't hurt my back. Doctors suggested gardening as therapy."
"And the roses?" I pointed toward the huge rose section visible through the windows. "There must be hundreds out there."
A smile played on his lips. "There's someone I care about who loves roses. I wanted to make a special place for her—an ocean of roses in every color imaginable."
I nearly choked. "You built this for a woman?" I couldn't help being curious—and maybe a little jealous, though I'd never admit it. "She must be pretty special."
Blake's eyes met mine, impossible to read. "She is."
"Do I know her?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"You'll find out eventually," he said with that annoying half-smile.
After our break, we moved on to pruning. Blake handed me some special shears and showed me what to do.
"Always cut at a 45-degree angle, just above a leaf node," he explained. "And make clean cuts—no crushing or tearing."
I focused hard on the task, determined to prove I could follow directions without him guiding my hands. The work took concentration, and I got absorbed in it, carefully checking each branch for the right cutting spot.
That's when I saw it—a fat, green caterpillar inching up one of the stems right in front of my face. I yelped and jumped back, dropping the shears and tripping over a watering can.
I was falling, arms flailing, when strong hands caught me around the waist. Blake pulled me against him, steadying us both as I found my footing.
"Whoa there," he said, sounding concerned but also amused. "You okay?"
My heart was racing, partly from the scare and partly from suddenly being so close to him. My back was pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around my waist.
"I'm fine," I said, breathless. "Just... startled."
Blake laughed, and I could feel it rumble through his chest. "Some things never change. You've always been fearless about everything except bugs."
He let go slowly, making sure I was steady before stepping back. "Remember that time at the lake when you found a leech on your ankle? I think they heard your scream in the next county."
I turned to face him, surprised. "You remember that? We were like, what, nine?"
"Eight," he corrected with a smile. "You wouldn't go back in the water all summer."
Something warm spread through my chest when I realized he remembered such a tiny detail from our childhood. I'd almost forgotten how much history we had before life pulled us apart.
We finished the pruning without more incidents (or handholding), and by late afternoon, I was pleasantly tired. My back ached, and my fingers felt stiff despite the gloves, but it felt good seeing the neat rows of plants we'd worked on.
I stretched, arching my back and rolling my shoulders. When I turned around, Blake was gone again. Typical. I wandered through the rose section, checking out the amazing variety. Some blooms were huge, others tiny and delicate; colors ranged from pure white to deep burgundy, with every shade of pink, yellow, and orange in between.
One type caught my eye—a rose with petals that faded from pale pink at the edges to coral in the center. It was elegant but not flashy, complex but not over-the-top.
"That's the 'Gentle Sunrise,'" Blake's voice came from behind me. "A new variety I developed last year."
I turned to find him holding a bouquet of those same roses, tied with a simple ribbon.
"For today's work," he said, holding them out to me. "Consider it payment for your community service."
I shook my head with a small laugh. "This wasn't actually court-ordered, you know. Just a misunderstanding."
"I've got roses to spare," he insisted. "Take them."
As I reached for the bouquet, Blake stepped closer. Before I knew what was happening, he gently tucked one of the roses behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek.
The touch was so unexpected, so intimate, that I froze. Blake's eyes held mine for a heartbeat before he stepped back and raised his phone.
"Perfect," he said softly, taking a picture while I stood there, too surprised to move. The late afternoon sun streamed through the glass, making everything glow.
Blake looked at the picture and smiled. "Just a memory of your first day as my gardening apprentice."
I snapped out of it. "Let me see that." I reached for his phone, but he held it away. "I bet your photography's as questionable as your teaching."
"My teaching got ten perfect rose bushes planted," he shot back.
"Fine," I sighed. "I should probably head home. It's getting late."
"Come back next weekend," Blake suggested as we walked out. "If there's any flower you want to see, just let me know. I probably grow it here."
"Maybe," I said casually, though part of me was already looking forward to it.
After changing and saying goodbye to Margaret, I headed to my car, setting the bouquet carefully on the passenger seat. As I pulled out of the parking lot, my phone buzzed. I ignored it until I hit a red light, then looked down.
It was from Jason: 【You fucking bitch. Was this your doing?】
My good mood vanished instantly.
I had just pulled into my parents' driveway when my phone rang. Jason's name flashed on the screen, and I answered with a sigh.
"You fucking bitch," he snarled without hello. "Is this your doing?"