I picked up the notebook, flipping it open before I could stop myself.
Page after page of designs. Labels for jam jars. Tags for herb bundles. A whole brand identity sketched out in pencil and pen, notes scribbled in the margins about color palettes and printing costs.
“Oh.” Rosie's voice came from behind me, soft with something like embarrassment. “You found my midnight doodling.”
“This isn't doodling.” I looked up at her. “This is professional.”
She moved closer, taking the notebook from my hands. Her fingers brushed mine, and I forced myself to focus on the designs instead of that brief contact.
“I used to do this for a living.” She flipped through the pages, not quite meeting my eyes. “Before the farm.”
I stared at her. “You quit this to run a farm?”
“When you say it like that—” She laughed, but it sounded hollow. “I was doing corporate graphic design. Pitch decks for executives. Internal documents nobody read. Brand guidelines for companies that made, like, moisture barrier membranes.”
“Lucrative, I assume.”
“Soul-crushing, mostly.” She set the notebook down, running her hand over one of the logo sketches.
“This doesn't look soul-crushing.” I gestured at the designs spread across the counter.
“It's not.” She traced one of the mountain peaks with her fingertip. “Actually, this has been the most fun I've had designing in... years, maybe.”
She flipped to another page—sketches of packaging for the soap, complete with little ribbon ties and handwritten care instructions.
“I've been thinking about the whole process,” she continued, her voice picking up speed. “Like, the soap needs to cure for at least four weeks before it's ready, right? So, I could do a preorder system. Take orders at the market, maybe even online, and deliver them when they're ready.”
She was gesturing now, her hands moving as she talked, and I found myself leaning closer to catch every word.
“And I could do seasonal variations—lavender in spring, maybe rosemary and mint in summer. Create this whole subscription thing where people know what to expect but it's still special.” She paused, looking up at me. “Does that sound completely insane?”
“No.” The conviction in my voice surprised me. “It sounds smart.”
Her smile widened. “Really?”
I nodded toward the notebook. “You've thought of everything. The branding, the logistics, the seasonal rotation. It's... impressive.”
“I just—” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I forgot how good it feels to create something from nothing. To solve real problems that matter.”
“Moisture barrier membranes don't matter?”
She laughed, the sound bright and genuine. “Not to me, they didn't. But this?” She gestured at the cooling soap molds. “People will use this. Touch it, smell it. It'll make their day a little nicer.”
I watched her face as she spoke, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about her work. There was something magnetic about her passion, the way she threw herself completely into whatever she was doing.
“You've got some—” I started then stopped.
“What?”
A small smudge of soap batter clung to her left cheekbone, pale against her skin. She must have gotten it while stirring earlier.
“Soap,” I said, my voice coming out rough. “On your cheek.”
She lifted her hand to wipe it away, missing by several inches. “Did I get it?”
“No, it's—” I hesitated, then stepped closer. “Here.”
I reached up, intending to brush it away quickly. But the moment my thumb touched her skin, everything slowed down. The soap came away easily, but I didn't move my hand.
