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When I opened the door, he was there waiting. In his hands was a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Pristine white roses, hydrangeas, lilacs, blue carnations, and a few others I didn’t recognize.
“Naomi.” He dipped his head.
“Ryker,” I answered, feeling embarrassed despite the fact that he had only said my name in greeting.
“These are for you,” he grinned, passing me the bouquet expectantly. I took it tentatively, probably looking like he had just given me a live snake.
“I don’t understand,” I answered, staring down at the roses. The wind picked up and the soft flowery scent whirled around me. It was calming in a way, and impossibly sweet.
“I know it is not your custom, but I wanted to bring you something nice in exchange for dinner and opening up your home to me.”
I nodded, not knowing what else to do.
“Come in,” I beckoned. He reached for the door and walked past me, brushing against my forearm in the process. An electric current passed through my body, and I shivered, sensation spiraling deep down into my core. I turned my face away, terrified that he might sense something if he could see me.
“You have a beautiful home. Very modern.”
“Thank you. The council gifted it to me on the day I was promoted to museum curator,” I explained.
“You should be very proud of the work you have accomplished during the course of your career,” he said, and this time, there was nothing I could do to stop the heat from rushing straight to my face. Flustered, I stared down into the flowers.
“I must confess. No one has ever given me flowers before,” I blurted, needing to say anything to divert the conversation from the effect he was having on me simply by complimenting me. He smiled, his expression softening.
“The first thing you need to do is get them in some water. Do you have a vase?” he offered gently.
I furrowed my brow and shook my head.
“Mind if I peek through your cabinets?”
I nodded quickly, a bit taken aback by his kindness.
If anything, he was the perfect gentleman.
The kind I’d read about in one of my stolen romance novels.
I watched as he opened several of my cabinets, searching until he found an oversized glass pitcher I’d used to make strawberry lemonade at the summer equinox gala that the museum had organized to garner donations from the public. It had been a massive hit.
He strode over to the kitchen sink and started filling it with water. He used a little more than I anticipated, and I hoped I’d have enough to take my usual hot shower at the end of the day. When he finally shut it off, a sigh of relief escaped me. He carried the pitcher over to the island, placing it directly in the center. He beckoned for me to come closer.
“May I?” His hand stopped inches from mine, the one clasped around the stems of the bouquet. I nodded quickly and handed them to him.
When his fingers brushed against mine, that same electric current hurtled through me once again.
I froze. I hadn’t really believed it was real the first time, but there was no denying it now. There was something between us, something that I didn’t quite understand and didn’t know if I was ready to confront.
He said nothing, instead unwrapping the silk bow from around the base and arranging the bouquet within the pitcher. By the time he was done, I could have sworn the flowers bloomed brighter. The sunlight through the window caught them just so and I gasped in wonder.
The whole thing reminded me of a faded picture in a book long ago, a meadow full of wildflowers swaying in the breeze.
I smiled gratefully.
“There. All you need to do is change the water every few days and these should last a while,” he explained.
“Where did you even get such a thing?”
“I had to walk the people through it at the garden center. They made a few mistakes along the way, but I think it turned out well,” he answered.
I knew the place he was talking about. It was a center for propagating plant life. Most of the gardens had a role, such as a medicinal one, or a manufacturing one. None of our plant life was grown for the sole purpose of looking pretty on someone’s counter.
