Page 110 of Sin City Lights

“OK. I won’t tell anyone about that pathetically soft heart of yours.”

“Don’t.” Adam picked up his gym bag.“Later.”

He ended the call.

Avoidance had been his coping mechanism, but now it was coming back to bite him in the ass. He only hoped this could be resolved favorably, once and for all.

He’d thought of having a conversation with Eve, but then, he didn’t see the point. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, except that he wished to spend more time with her and see how things went.

For now, he needed to be free.

•

Eve

“I never knew there were so many different kinds of roses.”

It was a sunny Saturday morning, and Adam had proposed a visit to his rose grower friend. Eve had eagerly accepted.

She had walked the rows and rows of fragrant, thorny bushes, not knowing where to look first. There were so many roses of different colors and varieties, ranging from climbers that arched over trellises, their boughs nodding, heavy with blooms, to miniatures, their flowers no bigger than a dime.

Dave Morrison tended them with a love and passion she had seen people give to their beloved pets. Each had a metal tag stamped with its name, year of introduction, and other information. Dave knew them all by heart. It was astounding that he could remember them all.

They were just finishing lunch, and Eve looked forward to a tour.

Adam sat in a wicker chair across from her, under an arch of cascading white roses, wearing all white, her favorite. The sun spotlighted his bright hair. He looked so good that she almost regretted letting him get her out of the house.

Each day made her desire for him grow more intense, as if he were the most addictive drug.

But the thoughtful things he did, such as taking her out to explore flowers today, were just as compelling.

She motioned toward the middle of the patio table, where at least a dozen roses were tucked in a Mason jar in an eclectic arrangement of many colors.

“These are all the same type?”

“Those are all different ones,” Dave explained,“from deadheading this morning. When we cut off almost spent blooms, it’s called deadheading. If they’re not removed, the plant will start making hips.”

“Rose hips?”

“Seed pods. When a rose goes to seed, it takes that as a signal that nature did its job, and it stops blooming.”

She looked at Adam, who was sipping his iced tea, his lashes lowered, a smile playing about his lips. Her gaze dipped to his open collar, and she forced herself to look back to Dave, who was explaining the difference between hybrid teas and some other type of rose.

“I’m only familiar with the long-stemmed ones, but I don’t see any here.”

“Ah, florist roses. Those are mostly flown in from South America. They’re grown in greenhouses, made to look identical.”

“They don’t have any scent,” she said.

Dave winked.“Exactly. The lack of it makes them last longer.”

“A shame.”

“It is. Many people who come here say they’ve never even smelled a rose.”

He finished the last bite of his chicken salad sandwich.“Growing is satisfying in itself, but many rosarians grow to see if they can come up with new varieties. That’s where the real fun is, for me.”

“How is that done?”

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