I wake with a crick in my neck and Ivy's elbow digging into my ribs. She's sprawled across me, one leg thrown over my thigh, drooling slightly on my shoulder.
It's perfect.
She stirs. Lifts her head. Blinks at me with sleep-fogged eyes.
"Morning," I say.
"Ugh." She wipes her mouth. Sits up. Hair's a disaster, braid completely undone, dirt smeared across her temple. "We slept in a barn."
"We did more than sleep."
Pink floods her cheeks. She shoves at my shoulder, but there's no heat in it.
I stand. Stretch. Everything aches in the best possible way. Through the gap in the barn door, I spot something that stops me cold.
"Ivy."
"What?"
I push the door wider. Point.
A patch of wildflowers has bloomed overnight. Tiny purple things with delicate petals, clustered in the muddy space between the barn and the fence line. They shouldn't be there. This late in the season, this close to frost, nothing blooms.
But there they are.
Ivy crouches beside them. Touches one flower with reverent fingers.
"Dwarf larkspur," she breathes. "I haven't seen these in five years. They're supposed to be locally extinct."
"Seeds must've been dormant."
"For years. Waiting." She looks up at me. Something fierce and bright burning in her expression. "The rain brought them back."
I crouch beside her. The flowers are smaller than my thumbnail, fragile as hope.
"Take it as a sign?" I ask.
"I don't believe in signs."
"Liar."
She smiles. Small. Real. "Maybe just this once."
We walk back to town as the sun climbs. Mud sucks at our boots. Ivy's hand finds mine halfway down the hill, our fingers lacing together like it's simple.
Like it's not the most complicated thing I've ever done.
My phone goes off in my pocket as we reach the main road. I pull it out. Seventeen missed calls from Maya. Forty-three texts. Three emails.
And a notification from the town Facebook group.
"What?" Ivy leans in to look.
The photo loads.
It's us. Last night. Sitting on hay bales under lantern light, sharing that emergency meal I'd cobbled together from my jacket pockets. Ivy's laughing at something. I'm looking at her like she hung the moon.
The caption reads:New romance brewing at the bistro? Local chef and seed activist spotted on secret late-night date. Webb Industries better watch out—these two look like trouble
