Okay, wait.That wasn’t something a guy would send a girl unless he was into her. Because eating ice cream was a pretty sexy thing. And honestly? It was a pretty hot picture.
Holy crap—it was practically a sext. Was it possible Rowanwasinto me?
I’d be on the rebound, wouldn’t I? Maybe not. I hadn’t thought about Matteo for a bit—and Gia said he’d stopped bugging her about me. I hadn’t even been tempted to check his feeds to see what he’d been up to. I truly didn’t care. I was over him.
But did I want a fling with Rowan Johnston, of all people? Plant-Boy? Talk about completely not my type. Well, physically he was my type. Physically he’d be anyone’s type—I think even the Queen of England would do a double take if she saw that jaw pass her on the street.
I had to admit that, in the last few weeks, I’d grown to like Rowan. I was drawn to him. Lately, it wasn’t just his jaw that I wanted to stare at, but his smile. The way his soft brown eyes laser-focused on his workwhen he was in the garden. The way he squinted a little bit when he painted the hydrangea in the store. That little smile on his face when he took that picture of me in the nursery.
I exhaled. It was true. I was so, so into Rowan Johnston. Not just for his looks, either. In all the ways.
Oh no. It was happening. Spending more time with him was becoming a disaster.
17
TOO MANY STARS IN THE SKY
Getting clothes ready for a weekend photo shoot was how I used to spend my Friday nights, so after I was done with the sketch to show Hyacinth, I happily altered a T-shirt to fit Rowan, just in case I won the bet and I got the chance to photograph him. The shirt was red, with faux-leather sleeves and an asymmetrical diagonal hem. I’d actually made it for myself but never worn it. It was nice to be sewing—something familiar for a change. It reminded me of my old life in Toronto.
But even though I was glad to be at my sewing machine again, part of me felt I shouldn’t be doing this. If I was smart, I’d get out of this bet and stay far, far away from Rowan for the rest of the summer. I couldn’t figure out how this had happened, but catching feelings for Plant-Boy was the definition of a bad idea. I needed to tamp down this crush. The Plan should be the only thing on my mind now. Not cute boys in gardens.
But I still took in the sleeves of the shirt (Ineededthose manure-bag-slinging biceps on my Insta). By eleven I was done sewing and restless. Gia was, of course, still out, and I wasn’t feeling like checking in with any Toronto friends. I glanced out the window. The garden was so cool at night. The flower beds were all subtly lit, and the normallyvibrant colors were dark, shaded versions of their daytime brilliance. I grabbed my camera and went outside.
I made a beeline for the flower bed near Rowan’s workbench—the one with the big dahlias, peonies, and lush greens. I played around with the settings on my camera and crouched to take some pictures.
They came out pretty nice. I widened the aperture and slowed the shutter speed a bit more. It looked almost magical—like a scene from one of those movies on alien planets. I kept taking pictures, some zooming in on individual flowers, some wide shots, when a hand on my shoulder nearly made me drop my camera.
I turned quickly...it was Rowan.
“Jesus—I still need to get you that bell,” I said, shaking my head.
He chuckled. He was so close. Illuminated only by the dim light of the backyard. The shadows painting his face in exquisite detail.
I exhaled. I had itbad.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I could ask you the same question.”
“True, but I asked first.”
I took a step away from him and indicated the flowers. “Oh, you know. The garden looks awesome at night. I didn’t think anyone would be out here so late. I figured I’d practice my night photography, but I can go and leave you alone...” I was babbling.
“You don’t have to leave. I was just surprised.” He grinned. “Seems I’ve turned you on to flowers after all.”
I chuckled. “Or your mother’s antihistamine has. Did you do all the lighting out here?”
He nodded. “Last year. It’s all solar. The receivers are there.” We walked over to a spot at the end of the garden. He told me more about the work he’d done wiring the garden, and about other plans he had for spotlights on the flower beds.
“It’s impressive,” I said. “You’ll be sad to leave all this when university starts, won’t you?”
He shrugged. “I’m not leaving Bakewell forever. My family and Shar are still here to enjoy the garden.”
I picked up the camera and crouched to take a close-up of a deep-pink dahlia. “Do you plan to come back to Bakewell after graduating university?”
“I don’t know. I’ll be back to visit at least. My family’s here, and I love Bakewell.”
“You say that now, but after a month in Toronto, you’ll be a city convert.” I doubted that, though. I still couldn’t imagine Rowan in the city. Actually, I couldn’t imagine Rowan anywhere but here, in this bright, colorful garden. Or at the nursery.
