I adjust my grip.
“That’s it.” He hums, encouraging. “Now pull. Steady and firm.”
I pull until the tulip slips free, a perfect bloom balanced on its stem and bulb.
“Good job.” He’s smiling at me. “You’re a natural.”
After the first one, I pick tulips in all colors. Ryder offers suggestions but lets me choose, following as I move through the rows, selecting favorites.
The activity is meditative. It’s peaceful with just the two of us and the flowers and the late afternoon sun.
But underneath the surface, the awareness thrums. By the time we’re done, my basket is full of tulips, and my heart is past its cardio quota for the day.
We walk back to the barn, where Ryder spreads the flowers on a workbench and wraps them. His fingers move unhurriedly, turning the tulips in his hands, adjusting the order until the mix looks right to him.
“You, instead, have done this before,” I observe.
“Rebecca taught me.” He ties off the twine with a quick knot. “She handles the flower operation, but we all pitch in during festivals.”
He holds out the bouquet to me.
I reach for my purse. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” He presses the flowers into my hands. “It’s on the house. A thank you for everything you’ve done for me and my son.”
It’s a simple offer of gratitude. But the gesture, coming from him, with his mouth caught between a smile and a breath held too long, while he looks at me with those smoldering eyes, feels romantic.
“Ryder, I can’t?—”
“You can.” His voice is firm. “Please.”
I take the bouquet and tell myself it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just thank-you flowers.
But my heart doesn’t get the memo.
“Thank you,” I say softly, holding the tulips to my chest.
We step out of the barn. The farm is almost empty now, most of the visitors having gone home.
Ryder glances toward the open yard where his family is breaking down booths and collecting trash. “I have to go help with the cleanup.”
“Of course.” I clutch the bouquet tighter. “Thank you again. For the flowers. And the hayride.”
“See you next Thursday?” he asks.
Right. The field trip is in less than a week. “Mmm-hmm. Did you do your deep-breathing exercises?”
“Will get on it. Any other last-minute advice?” Ryder asks, his expression turning playful. “About chaperoning?”
“Don’t let them smell fear,” I joke.
I silently add: Don’t let me smell you, or I’m the one you’ll have to beware of.
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine.
Ryder tips his head, that backward baseball cap at odds with the gesture but even more charming for it. “See you Thursday, Miss Rose.”
This time, Miss Rose sounds like foreplay. A dark promise wrapped in pretend politeness.
