"You're thinking very loudly for someone who should still be asleep."
His voice was rough with sleep, a low rumble against the back of her neck. She felt his lips curve into a smile against her skin.
"I'm not thinking loudly," she protested. "I'm just… thinking."
"About?"
"Last night."
"Ah." His hand traced lazy patterns across her stomach. "Which part? The wildly successful festival that we organized with minimal disasters? The standing ovation? Or…" His fingers dipped lower, teasing. "The other part?"
She caught his wrist before he could distract her further. "All of it. But mostly—" She turned in his arms to face him, drinking in the sight of his sleep-rumpled hair and golden-brown eyes. "The music. I've never heard anything like that."
Something soft flickered across his expression. "I've never played anything like that. Not for anyone."
"Why me?"
It was a question that had been circling in her mind since the first notes rang out across the vineyard. Why her, of all people? The shy florist who'd spent most of her life trying to be invisible. What had she done to deserve having someone pour their entire heart out on a stage for the whole town to see?
He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Because you're the only one I've ever trusted with it."
Oh.The simple honesty of the answer made her chest ache.
"We should probably get up," she said reluctantly. "There's cleanup to do, and I need to check on the shop, and?—"
"And your mother."
The words landed between them like a stone dropped into still water. Her pleasant bubble of contentment wobbled slightly at the edges.
"She might have left already," she said, not entirely sure if she was hoping for that outcome or dreading it. "She doesn't usually stay in one place for long."
"Then let's go find out." He pressed a kiss to her forehead and sat up, the muscles of his back shifting in ways that made her momentarily forget about mothers and responsibilities entirely. "I'll make coffee. You can borrow a shirt if you don't want to do the walk of shame in that gorgeous dress."
"It's not a walk of shame if the whole town already knows we're together."
"True." He grinned over his shoulder. "It's more of a victory lap."
The walk back to Bloom& Vine was quiet in the way early autumn mornings often were—that particular hush before the world fully woke up. The festival cleanup wouldn't start for another few hours, and most of Harmony Glen seemed to still be sleeping off the previous night's celebrations.
She wore one of his button-down shirts over her dress, the hem reaching almost to her knees. It smelled like him—wine and earth and something uniquely satyr—and she found herself pressing her nose to the collar more than once.
"You keep doing that," he observed.
"Doing what?"
"Sniffing my shirt."
"I'm not—" She caught herself mid-sniff. "Okay, maybe I am. It smells good."
Bloom & Vine came into view as they rounded the corner—the sage-green facade warm and welcoming in the morning light, vines climbing up the weathered brick, the window displays still showing the summer arrangements she'd put together last week. Her home. Her business. The one stable thing she'd managed to build in a lifetime of chaos.
The front door was unlocked.
She pushed it open cautiously, half-expecting to find Daisy reorganizing the entire shop or perhaps hosting an impromptu gathering of strangers she'd met at the festival. Instead, the space was quiet. Empty.
"Mom?"
No answer.
