He only lets go when he needs both hands to touch leaves, check soil, straighten pots—and then he reaches for me again, like he can’t help it. Like his hand needs to know where I am.
“This is winter jasmine,” he says, stopping at a plant covered in tiny yellow flowers. “Most people think nothing blooms in winter. But that’s not true. You just have to know where to look.”
“Is this your metaphor?” I ask, smiling. “Winter blooms? Second chances?”
“Maybe.” He ducks his head, that flush creeping back into his cheeks. “Is it working?”
“Little bit.”
He shows me hellebores—”Christmas roses,” he calls them—with their delicate purple petals. Witch hazel with its spidery yellow blooms. Camellias that won’t flower until February but are already forming buds.
“I love this time of year,” he admits, leading me to a corner filled with seedling trays. “Everyone thinks winter is death. But underground, everything is preparing. Roots are growing. Energy is storing. Spring doesn’t just happen—it’s being built, right now, where no one can see it.”
“You really do think in metaphors.”
“Occupational hazard.” He picks up a tiny seedling, barely more than two leaves. “This is going to be a tomato plant. Right now it looks like nothing. Give it six months and it’ll be taller than you and producing fruit.” He sets it down gently. “I like that. The idea that small things become big things if you give them what they need.”
I think about my books. About the small idea that became a career. About the three boys who became men I’m only now getting to know.
“Yeah,” I say. “I like that too.”
He shows me his propagation station, where he’s growing new plants from cuttings. His seed library, organized by type and season in old card catalog drawers. The little corner with a space heater and a worn armchair where he sits and reads when the world gets too loud.
I settle into the armchair while he works. It’s as comfortable as it looks—worn soft in all the right places, smelling faintly of him. Like being wrapped in his scent.
“I come here when I can’t sleep,” he admits. “Talk to the plants. They’re good listeners.”
“Better than people?”
“Less complicated than people.” He picks up a watering can, starts checking the soil in various pots. Even now, even with me here, he can’t stop taking care of things. “Plants just need the basics. Water. Light. Good soil. They don’t overthink everything. They don’t have baggage.”
“Unlike humans.”
“Unlike humans.” He glances at me. “Unlike me, specifically. I’ve been overthinking this conversation since the day you left.”
I’ve had enough.
I stand up from his armchair. Cross the space between us. Take the watering can out of his hands and set it on the nearest table.
“Theo.”
“Yeah?” His voice is soft. Hopeful.
“I told myself I came back to Honeyridge Falls to help my grandmother.” I step closer. His scent wraps around me—pine and earth and cedar—and my whole body responds. Heat pooling low. Pulse quickening. Every instinct I have recognizing what I’ve wanted all this time. “But I think I was lying to myself. I think I came back for you. For all three of you.”
“Cara—”
“I’ve spent ten years writing about the life I was too scared to live.” Another step. My heart is pounding so hard he can probably hear it. “And then I saw you at the auction, and I thought—okay, Cara. You can keep running, or you can finally do something about this.”
“You bid on all three of us.” His voice is rough.
“I did.” I laugh, a little shaky. “Spent way too much money. Grandma’s going to have opinions about my financial decisions.” I reach up, touch his jaw. My hand is trembling. “I know I hurt you. I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But I’m asking for one anyway.”
“Cara.” He covers my hand with his, pressing it against his cheek. His eyes are bright. “I’ve been waiting ten years for you to come back.”
Oh.
“You have?”
