Page 105 of When Love Takes Root

My cheeks warmed. “You always answer like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you know exactly where to put the words.”

His laugh moved low through the truck. “I don’t always know where to put them. I just don’t like wasting the ones that matter.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you know you sound good.”

“I’m glad it’s working.”

He laughed then, low and full, and the sound filled the truck.

We turned off DePriest and cut through a calmer part of Self Ridge, where old brick buildings sat between new businesses, and oak trees arched over the street with moss hanging from their limbs. The evening had softened into that hour between day and night when everything looked forgiving. Storefront windows glowed. A couple walked hand in hand past a mural of Black children reading under a magnolia tree.

The protest inside my stomach finally began to settle.

Then Josiah turned onto a narrow side street and slowed in front of an old brick building almost hidden behind ivy. There was no large sign, no bright marquee, nothing screaming for attention. Just a copper plaque near a black iron gate that read The Blooming Room Conservatory. Ivy crawled up the walls in thick green ropes, curling around the windows and climbing toward the roof like it had been growing there since somebody’s grandmother first asked for something pretty to survive the city.

I sat up straighter.

“Wait.”

Josiah parked and looked over at me. “You know it?”

“No.” I stared through the windshield. “But what is this?”

“Come see.”

He got out before I could demand more answers, then came around to open my door. He held my hand and steadied me, his other hand near my waist for one careful second before he let it go.

“You steady?” he asked.

“No,” I said honestly, looking past him toward the ivy-covered gate. “But not because of the truck.”

His smile deepened.

He led me through the gate, and the moment we stepped inside, my whole body forgot how to be guarded.

The Blooming Room opened like a secret the city had been keeping for people who still believed wonder could live behind brick. Glass ceilings stretched above us, catching the last blue of the evening and reflecting lantern light in warm, gold pools. Wisteria hung from iron beams in lavender cascades. Lemon trees lined the walkway, their glossy leaves shining beneath warm string lights.

Josiah stopped beside me.

I couldn’t move.

I pressed a hand to my chest. “Josiah.”

He stood beside me, watching my face instead of the flowers. “You like it?”

I turned toward him slowly. “Do I like it?”

His smile came with quiet satisfaction.

“This is so damn cute. Oh my God.”