Page 27 of The Bear's Blooming Mate

They wandered through a tunnel of climbing clematis, its star-shaped blooms creating a canopy of purple and white overhead.

“It’s like walking through a fairy tale,” Elsbeth said as she stopped and looked up at the flowers.

Then she looked at him, and the temptation to pull her into his arms and hold her close, to kiss her lips and murmur sweet words in her ear, was overwhelming.

Instead, he asked, “How about that coffee and cake?”

“Yes.” Elsbeth laughed and twirled around, arms outstretched. “I think we’ve earned it.”

“This way.” Philip led her over to the café, a cozy outdoor space under a sprawling pergola dripping with wisteria.

Behind the small counter stood Welland, a thin, wiry man with a shock of white hair and a perpetual twinkle in his eye. As if he knew the secret to eternal happiness.

“Philip Thornberg,” Welland called out, wiping his hands on a towel. “Come to corrupt another innocent soul with my lemon cake?”

Philip grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it. This one’s entirely capable of corrupting herself.”

Elsbeth flushed but smiled, shaking her head.

“Coffee and cake, then?” Welland asked, already reaching for two floral mismatched cups.

“Yes, please,” Philip said. “The biggest slice you’ve got. Don’t you think?”

Elsbeth nodded. “I believe we deserve a big slice of cake.”

“A woman after my heart,” Philip said lightly.

More like the woman who owns our heart,his bear said.

“You go find yourselves a seat,” Welland said. “And I’ll bring it over.”

“Thanks, Welland.” Philip turned around and scanned the area. It was late afternoon, and the café was quiet, so they had their pick of tables. “Over there?”

“Sure.” Elsbeth followed him to a small wrought-iron table tucked under the fragrant flowers. “This is perfect.” She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.

Oh, it is,Philip’s bear agreed.

The perfect end to a perfect day.

And the perfect start to his life with Elsbeth.

Chapter Eight – Elsbeth

Elsbeth leaned her head against the window as they drove back to the farm…

Rose Farm.

The name was perfect. A fitting memorial to the woman who had inspired her whole life.

Tears misted her eyes, but this time they were not so much tears of sadness and loss, but of hope. Hope for a future she had been brave enough to claim.

For a moment, she didn’t fight her emotions. She simply let herselfbe.

She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been wound until now. How much pressure she’d carried on her shoulders without even noticing.

But sitting here beside Philip, with the sweet scent of flowers still clinging to her clothes and the faint hum of a future blooming in her mind, something inside her had finally—mercifully—begun to loosen.

He didn’t fill the silence with chatter or questions. He simply was.

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