We’re last in the kitchen this time.
She leans against the counter, and something about having her in my kitchen feels right. “Wilma and Faye are going to be cleaning flour out of this kitchen until next Valentine’s Day.”
“I think you’re to blame for that.” My thumb wipes a smudge of white dust from her cheek, but it’s not the only spot.
It’s dusted through her hair, pressed into the fabric of her clothes
She smirks. “Maybe I should grab the broom.”
We clean together, and I like this too. The closeness, the shared laughter, the easy way we fall into step, and how conversation flows without thinking.
When we’re done, she glances at the clock. “What now?”
I check it too, just after four.
“Nothing scheduled,” I say. “Couple of hours free before supper prep.”
She smiles slowly. “That might be my favourite thing you’ve said all day.”
We step outside. It’s mild with a hint of damp in the air.
The backyard is alive with activity. Wilma and Faye direct a couple of guys setting up fire pits and tables for tonight’s fireside class.
“Do you need a hand?” I ask.
“Absolutely not.” Faye shoos us off the stairs with a little push. “You two go explore. We’ve got this.”
Shay glances up at me. “She’s clearly rooting for us.”
“Rooting or meddling?”
“Is there a difference?”
I shake my head as I slip my hand in hers. “They’d say it’s fate.”
“Yes, they would.”
We wander down a narrow stone path that winds through the property’s gardens. The B&B’s backyard is like a secret maze: hedges trimmed into winding corridors, flower beds with tiny hidden signs, and little gazebos tucked around corners.
“This is beautiful.” She ducks under a low trellis draped in vines.
Ivy brushes her shoulders as she steps through. Her camera swings lightly against her chest. She tilts it up, scanning the garden for shots, and forgets me momentarily.
I don’t mind. I lean against a tree and watch.
She crouches low, snapping the fountain as sunlight splashes off the water. She steps closer, framing the stone path with the hedges curling around us.
I watch the subtle tilt of the camera pointing my way.
“Don’t you dare,” I mutter, grinning as I step around a flower bed.
Click.
She tilts the camera, catching my hands brushing against hers, the faint smudge of flour on my thumb, and the shudder snaps again.
When we reach the far end of the backyard, a hammock hangs between two sturdy trees.
“This backyard does not disappoint.” She motions. “You first.”
