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He just had to get around to asking.
“I want to marry you someday, Rowan,”he’d said, an eternity ago. Inside her head, a tiny, ugly voice told her he’d never mention it again, and it kept her from ever bringing it up.
Logically, Rowan knew she didn’t have to exchange vows and rings with Harry to have his full commitment. But every time they’d gone anywhere special over the last few months, Rowan had a bout of nerves, wondering if it was finally going to be the time he proposed. In February, they’d spent the night in Philadelphia to celebrate Harry’s birthday—incidentally, Valentine’s Day. Before they left, Rowan got the first professional manicure of her life at a little boutique in Linden in preparation for a prospective question-popping. They’d had an intimate, romantic dinner, then ice-skated under the lights at Dilworth Park. All she’d come home with was a sprained ankle and a manicure that barely lasted an hour into her subsequent workday.
Still. She loved him. And she’d wait.
Earlier that day, he’d called to tell her to meet him just after six o’clock in the grassy clearing between the meadow and the Chardonnay. April evenings were still cool, but sunlight held out until nearly eight now. Rowan changed her clothes five times before deciding on dark jeans and a slouchy gold sweater that picked up the lighter flecks in her eyes. Her hair was twisted in a half bun at her crown, and the rest of her curls fell free down her back.
Harry wasn’t there when she arrived. The air was hazy and golden with evergreen pollen. A breeze brought scents of powdery lilac and fruity hyacinth. Rising temperatures had triggered bud break in the Chardonnay, and baby leaves now emerged as fuzzy bronze-pink rosettes, washing the fields with a gentle blush. The Chambourcin and Cabernet Franc were slower to awaken,as reds often were. Rowan imagined the vines as sentient, reveling in finally,finallybeing properly tended for the first time in years, spreading their woody arms wide to gather the sun.
“Do they ever answer you?” Harry said from behind her.
Rowan hadn’t even realized she’d been talking. She turned, expectant goose bumps stippling her skin, warmth blooming in her chest.
In one hand, Harry held a small bouquet of wild indigo, and in the other, he clutched a large old-fashioned picnic basket. He had a burnished glow now, and he seemed sobig. Today he’d worn a pale periwinkle button-down with sleeves rolled to his elbows, and flat-fronted khakis that hugged his slim hips. He set the basket in the grass and extended the flowers.
His hair had grown out again, long enough to be pulled back in a short nub at his nape. The locks at the front and sides were still a bit too short to stay in the elastic, so he’d tucked them behind his ears. One hunk of hair fell free, and Rowan reached up to tuck it back.
“How long have you been standing there?” She tipped her face up, breathing him in. His clothes were infused with the warm, masculine essence of his skin, and the day-faded scent of his juniper soap.
“Long enough to know you were talking to the grapevines.”
“Talking to plants is an important part of any good botanist’s daily routine.”
“Naturally. You’ve also got plant stuff in your hair.” He wiggled a dried flower petal free from her curls, likely blown from one of the blooming hawthorns by the sheep barn.
“That’s a required part of a botanist’s official uniform,” she said primly.
He touched a fingertip to her nose, then turned it to her for investigation. “What’s this for, then?” It was a smudge of yellow pollen.
“Botanist cosmetics,” she said. “Obviously.”
His laugh was low, resonating on the same frequency as her heartbeat. Slowly, he brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, then the other. A fingertip smoothed each of her eyebrows, and down the bridge of her nose, tender and sensual. He shuffled closer and cupped the sides of her neck with his hands, running his thumbs along her jawline. Every molecule of her body urged toward him, but she curled her toes into the grass and stayed put, letting him explore her. She fixated on his mouth.
“Not polite to stare,” Harry murmured, hands drifting to her shoulders, thumbs caressing her collarbone through her sweater.
“I’m memorizing,” she said.
“Ah.”
“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”
“I’m memorizing, too.” He plucked another petal from her hair. “I’m also making sure I’m not going to eat any foreign plant material if I put my mouth on you.”
Rowan chuckled. “In grad school, I had a plant grow out of my shower drain. The seed must have fallen out of my hair.”
“It killed you to have to pull it out, didn’t it?” He tugged and released a damp curl coiled tight against her temple.
“Who says I pulled it out?”
Harry shook his head. Then he kissed her, long and slow. His breath fanned warm across her face, and she inhaled him like a benediction, lips melting, tongues gliding. Solid hands dipped into the back pockets of her jeans, squeezing her tight against him. She went up on her toes for more leverage, twining her arms around his neck, her fingers in his hair. The elastic sprang free, releasing the honeyed waves into her hands.
Harry pulled back, nudging her forehead with his. “Hungry?”
“Always,” she said.
“Good. I brought cheese,” he said.
