I nodded, but kept staring at the plain rectangles.
“What?” She'd caught me frowning.
“They look maybe a bit...” I searched for the right words. “Plain?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Plain?”
Great. Now you sound like a complete ass.
“Not that there's anything wrong with plain,” I said quickly. “They're well-made. Professional. But they don't look like...you.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
I gestured vaguely at the neat rectangles. “You're not plain, Rosie. You're—” I stopped, heat creeping up my neck. “You could add something. On top. Make them more interesting.”
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe confusion. She stared down at the soap, then back at me.
“Interesting like me?”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Like... dried lavender or something. Herbs from your garden. Make them yours.”
She was quiet for a long moment, studying the molds. When she looked up, her expression had shifted into something I couldn't quite read.
“You think I should make them more... colorful? Messy?”
“Not messy. Just—” I ran a hand through my hair. “Just like you.”
A slow smile spread across her face, and she moved to the windowsill where she'd left sprigs of lavender to dry. She picked up several stems, then turned back to me with that mischievous look I was starting to recognize.
“Here.” She handed me half the sprigs. “You helped make them, so you should decorate one. Make it look likeyou.”
I stared at the purple flowers in my palm. “And what’s that supposed to look like?”
“Oh, you know.” Her eyes sparkled with barely contained laughter. “Perfectly straight lines. Every petal in its proper place. Very serious and organized.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “I'm not that uptight.”
“Of course not.” She was already moving to the first mold, crumbling lavender between her fingers.
I looked down at the soap, then at the delicate flowers in my hand. This was ridiculous. But Rosie was watching me with that expectant smile, and I found myself carefully plucking individual buds from the stems.
I placed them one by one across the surface of the soap in neat, evenly spaced rows. The purple stood out against the pale cream, orderly and precise.
“There.”
Rosie leaned over to examine my work. “It's perfect. Very...you.”
Something warm unfurled in my chest at the approval in her voice. I watched as she moved to the next mold, scattering petals with wild abandon, letting them fall where they wanted. Some landed in clusters, others drifted to the edges. It looked like controlled chaos—beautiful and completely unpredictable.
Just like her.
I turned away before she could catch me staring and pulled the mixing bowls toward the sink. Safer to focus on cleanup than watch the way she moved between the molds, humming under her breath.
The dishes clinked as I stacked them, reaching for the faucet when I noticed a notebook perched dangerously close to the edge of the counter. I moved it out of splash range, but a loose page fluttered to the floor.
I bent to pick it up and froze.
It was a logo. Hand-drawn, a simple barn silhouette with mountains behind it, the words “Sullivan Farm” curved along the bottom in elegant script. But it wasn't just one version. The margins were filled with variations, different fonts, slight adjustments to the mountain peaks.
