Page 112 of When Love Takes Root

I looked around. A couple passed near the orchids, laughing over a shared pastry. The fountain moved somewhere behind us. My pulse answered before my fear did.

“Yes.”

He leaned down and kissed me beneath the lemon tree.

This kiss was not as careful as the first, though it was still controlled. It knew me a little now. It remembered my mouth. It knew I would lean in if given time, knew my fingers would curl into his shirt, knew I would make that small sound if his hand settled at the side of my face and his thumb moved near my cheek. He kissed me like a man who wanted more and had already decided more would have to wait until it could be held with both desire and wisdom.

When he pulled back, I stayed close.

“That was different,” I whispered.

His forehead touched mine. “Too much?”

“No.”

“Not enough?”

I smacked his chest lightly, and he laughed against my mouth before stealing one more kiss—shorter, sweeter, dangerous in a way that made my knees remember they had responsibilities.

His hand rested at the side of my neck, thumb beneath my jaw, eyes holding mine with a patience that felt more devastating than pressure ever could have.

“You make me want to ask God twice before I touch you once,” he said. “And I need you to understand what that means, because I’m not saying I don’t want you. I’m saying I want you bad enough to keep my hands obedient.”

My breath left me in pieces. “Josiah.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You’re dangerous.”

His smile came slow, beautiful, and entirely too sure. “No. I’m intentional. Dangerous would be wanting you without discipline.”

I looked away before my face said everything my mouth wasn’t ready to confess.

He turned my hand over and traced the center of my palm with his thumb. “Look at me, Celeste.”

I did.

God help me, I did.

“I can wait on your heart, but don’t ask me to pretend I don’t know it’s worth waiting for.”

We walked again, because standing still with him felt like a risk my outfit had not been designed to survive.

Near the back of the conservatory, The Blooming Room opened into a small courtyard under glass where guests could plant small cuttings in clay pots to take home. Josiah had reserved two spots for us at a wooden worktable with soil, gloves, tiny trowels, and rows of herbs and flowering plants waiting in starter containers.

I looked at him. “You planned a planting activity?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You trying to make me fall in love on the first date?”

The words came out before I could stop them.

Both of us froze.

My heart slammed once, then tried to flee the scene.

Josiah did not pounce on it. Did not grin too hard. Did not make me regret speaking from a place I had not meant to reveal. He picked up a small clay pot and turned it in his hands, giving me a second to breathe.