Page 19 of Love in Full Bloom

"That's what makes it interesting," Mara jumps in, clearly trying to smooth over the awkward moment. "Complementary perspectives, right?"

But Sophie's words have already lodged themselves in my mind, feeding the insecurities that never fully disappear. She's right. Ben and I are opposites in many ways. His work is precise, controlled, respected in professional circles. Mine is emotional, intuitive, often dismissed as merely decorative.

"Absolutely," I say, forcing a smile. "Opposites attract and all that."

The conversation moves on, but I'm only half-listening. Sophie's observation—casual as it was—has cracked open the door to all my doubts. Would someone like Ben, with his prestigious clients and technical expertise, really be interested in someone like me? Or is this just a temporary fascination with something different from his usual world?

By the time I get home, the glow from the morning has dimmed considerably. I stare at my phone, at the text Ben sent while I was at coffee.

Ben: Still thinking about this morning. Can't wait to see your studio tomorrow. And you, of course.

I type and delete several responses before settling on

Me: Looking forward to it. See you then.

Short. Safe. Not revealing the sudden tumult of insecurities churning inside me.

In my studio, I look at the painting I started after our first meeting—the one blending structure and wildness, inspired by the space between Ben's world and mine. It had felt so promising, so full of possibility. Now I see all its flaws—thecomposition that doesn't quite work, the colors that clash in places, the concept that feels forced.

I turn it to face the wall. Maybe Sophie is right. Maybe we're too different. Maybe what I saw as understanding was just professional courtesy or passing interest.

My phone buzzes again.

Ben: Everything okay? That seemed a little brief.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. He notices everything.

Me: Just busy with commissions. Talk tomorrow.

I set my phone down and pick up my brushes, determined to lose myself in work rather than worry. But as I face the Henderson commission, I find myself second-guessing every stroke. Is this too fanciful? Too emotional? Too much?

AmItoo much?

The question haunts me as I work into the evening, my earlier joy replaced by a familiar companion: doubt. By the time I clean my brushes and prepare for bed, I've convinced myself that whatever Ben saw in me will eventually disappoint him when he realizes how different we truly are.

Tomorrow, when he comes to my studio, he'll see the real me—the messy, emotional artist who paints weeds because she identifies with their struggle to be valued. And then what? Will his interest fade when the novelty wears off?

I curl up in bed, pulling the covers tight around me. The rational part of my brain knows I'm spiraling, creating problems where none exist. But the wounded part—the part that's been dismissed and underestimated before—whispers that it's only a matter of time before Ben realizes I'm not what he wants.

And the worst part is, I've already started to fall for him.

I arrive at Jasmine's studio apartment fifteen minutes early, carrying a bag of takeout from the Mediterranean place downtown and a bottle of wine tucked under my arm. The evening air feels charged with anticipation, but something doesn't feel right. Her last few text messages have been uncharacteristically brief, almost cold compared to our earlier conversations.

Something's changed since yesterday morning at my property. The connection we shared, the way she lit up talking about the wildflowers, the kiss that still lingers in my mind—it all felt so genuine. But now there's a distance I can't explain.

I check the address again before knocking. From inside, I hear a muffled "Coming!" followed by what sounds like something being moved or rearranged.

When Jasmine opens the door, her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. She's wearing paint-splattered overalls over a green t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy bun with copper tendrils escaping around her face. Even in this casual state, she's breathtaking.

"Hi," she says, stepping back to let me in. "Sorry about the mess. I've been working all day."

"No apology needed." I hand her the wine and food. "I brought dinner. Hope you like Mediterranean."

"I love it. Thank you." She takes the bags, our fingers brushing briefly. I notice she doesn't quite meet my eyes.

Her apartment is exactly what I expected—vibrant, creative, alive with color. Plants crowd every windowsill, paintings in various stages of completion lean against walls, and the air smells of paint and turpentine with undertones of something floral. It's chaotic but in the most beautiful way, like a meadow where every plant has found its perfect place through natural selection rather than design.

"Your studio is through here?" I ask, nodding toward an open doorway where I glimpse an easel.

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