I shudder at the thought. “How about we start with the camping trip?”
He nods enthusiastically, tipping up his bowl to drain the last of his milk. He almost skips over to the sink, but I grab his arm, threading my fingers through his curls. “If Logan’s home now, it also means I’ll be spending more time with him.” I ponder my next words, watching the tiny crease form between his silky brows. “Would it be okay with you if we maybe bonded some day?”
Leo shuffles his feet, his breath puffing out. “Like a real family?”
“I think we’re already one, in lots of ways, don’t you?” He nods and I smile. “But you’re right. This would make it more official.”
He considers that for a moment. “And then Logan would be my proper dad? Like, I could call him that, whenever I wanted?”
I have to stop myself from rubbing my aching chest. “Yes, if that’s what you want. You know he loves you so much, right?”
Leo sucks on the edge of his lip as he thinks. “Okay. Yeah, that would be good. But he better stick.” I raise my brows at his warning tone, and he huffs. “I already have one loser dad; I don’t need another.” I open my mouth to protest, but he leans up to kiss my cheek. “And if he leaves and makes you cry again, I’m parking his truck at the bottom of Willow Lake.”
I gulp at his terrifying scowl, but he’s already bounding away, his baseball tossed about his head as he clatters out the door.
The first few weeks of summer are always a busy time on the farm, especially without Rosie around lending a hand. I’m glad she’s finally getting her epic road trip, but it would be nice to be able to pee without one ear cocked for the next customer. Marion is my permanent farm manager, and I have a pair of seasonal workers who cover the fields, but even with all hands on deck, it’s a lot of early mornings and long, tiring days. The last thing Rosie said to me before she left was to hire another couple of casuals to share the load, but I’ve seen what a lean year can do to our finances. Plus, my faerie princeling is growing so fast, he’ll need a whole new wardrobe by the time he goes back to school in the fall.
We open at nine for group bookings and ten for foot traffic, many of whom have driven a long way for the full pick-and-taste experience. Along with filling their buckets with a bounty of blooms, we also offer a range of berries, jams, cordials, teas, and edible flowers. With enough warning, cheese platters can be arranged, and visitors are welcome to bring a picnic to enjoy on the grassy lawn or at one of the wooden tables set out on the riverbank. Every Saturday afternoon, a couple of food trucks stop by, along with an acoustic band of college students who play until sundown. In the last week of the month, we are the final stop on the June Bloom Tour, where locals and visitors areencouraged to eat, drink, and dance their way through a number of neighboring farms, markets, and wineries. It’s the biggest day of the year for us, and I’m usually vibrating with exhaustion by the time I collapse into bed.
But that’s still a few weeks off and dwelling on it now will only dial my panic up from middling to manic.
I’m in the process of arranging a sample of edible flowers on the store’s counter when a customer pushes the door open, bringing in a wave of warm, peppermint-laced air. “Hi. Are you open?”
I glance up and realize the ‘Closed Until Sunup’ sign still hasn’t been turned around. “Shoot. Yes, we’re definitely open. I’m Lily. Welcome to Rosie’s Blooms.”
“Lily and Rosie?” A slow smile spreads over his face as he steps further into the store, and I freeze, feeling like a sunflower caught in its first solar eclipse. The beta is gorgeous, with thick brown curls, a pointed chin, and the kind of wide, generous mouth that is equal parts sinful and flirty. “Is that just a marketing ploy or…?”
“Rosie says we all have a flower spirit inside us.” I point to a framed picture on the wall. Rosie is hanging out the window of her rented RV, while her beau, Doc Munster, beams up at her from outside. “She named herself Rosie, because she never forgave her mom for calling her Petunia.”
His hazel eyes dance as he leans over the counter and I catch another whiff of his peppermint scent. It’s stronger than I’m used to from his designation, although bonding can increase the potency of a beta’s scent. And something tells me this guy has never been short of suitors. “And is there a Daisy and a Violet hiding back there somewhere?”
“I wish. In fact, I’d hire the Dark Lord himself as long as he had a working pair of hands and wasn’t allergic to pollen.”
He snorts and props his chin on his palm, looking up at me from under lashes that are far too lush for a man. “I don’t think Sauron is much of a flower lover, but you might convince an elf or two. Legolas would look pretty fetching with a floral crown, don’t you think?”
I snicker and make a show of fanning my face. Leo has just entered his epic fantasy phase, and I have zero problem with all the LOTR marathons he’s been choosing for movie night. “He might be good for business, but I’d be so distracted, I’d get evenlesswork done.”
“Well, I'll keep an eye out for any unemployed orc types, then.” He gives me a flirty wink and taps the counter, where the farm’s instructions are taped to the top. “And in the meantime, can you tell me how the flower picking works?”
“Sure.” I glance past him at the fields and parking lot. Both are relatively quiet at the moment, and I bite back a smile. I should be praying for customers to storm the farm in droves, but this gives me an excuse to spend more time with the very attractive beta right in front of me. “In fact, since it’s quiet right now, why don't I give you a quick tour?”
“Thanks.” His smile is dazzling. “I'd love that.”
I nod and step out from behind the counter, leading him through the front door and out onto the porch. Creeping roses form a fragrant arch over the top of the stairs, and I nod to the stack of slightly dented metal buckets lining the wall, a pair of floral shears tied to each handle. “So, it's pay by the bucket. The big one is for the flowers and the smaller one for the berries. No pressure, but did you want to do both?”
He grins and grabs one of each. “I want to do it all!”
I love his enthusiasm almost as much as his scent and the fizzle of excitement in my belly carries me down the stairs and towards the first row of flowers. Each bed is marked with clear instructions on how to snip the flowers with the shears, if thereare thorns or sap to watch out for, and a reminder not to disturb the bumblebees. The attractive beta carefully studies each sign before stooping to smell the flowers. I watch him stroke their petals, humming in appreciation, but he doesn’t pick a single bloom, and I fight another smile. We get two kinds of customers at Rosie’s Blooms – those who squeeze as many flowers as they can into their buckets, and those who greet each blossom like they’re an old friend.
“You should come back on Saturday,” I tell him as we move at a snail’s pace through the beds, the scent of lavender, bee balm, and marigolds washing over us. “We have food trucks and a band, if that's your thing.”
“Thisalllooks like my thing.” His face lights up even more as he reaches into the satchel looped over his body and pulls out an expensive-looking camera. “Do you mind if I take a few photos?”
“Not at all.” I take his buckets from him while he removes the camera case and fiddles with the lens. “Free publicity, right?”
He gives me another of those devastating smiles and points his camera at the nearest sign, which lists all the flowers in the bed. “So, can you tell me which is which? I only know the obvious ones.”
“Sure.” I point out each flower, adding a few tips about planting and growing them. Most people who come to the farm are just there for a bucket of sweet-smelling color and maybe an Instagram selfie or two, but this guy seems genuinely intrigued, his camera shutter clicking furiously as he soaks it all in. It’s pretty clear he’s more interested in shooting flowers than picking them, so I let his empty buckets dangle from my fingertips as we make our way through the garden.
