Page 2 of Love in Full Bloom

Krissa's expression softens. "I think two people who create beauty deserve to find it in each other. Don't you?"

When she puts it that way, I can't argue. I make a note in our shared calendar:Ben Thompson + Jasmine Carter. Community Arts Festival. Operation: Bloom & Grow.

I just hope they're both ready to plant something new.

Zaftig Dating Agency Intake Form

Name:Ben Thompson

Occupation:Landscape architect known for creating stunning, personalized garden designs

Referred By:His sister, who insists he needs someone special in his life to complement his dedication to work

Notes:Ben is passionate about his craft and finds joy in nature, but has been too focused on his career to pursue romance

Name:Jasmine Carter

Occupation:Visual artist who specializes in vibrant floral paintings

Notes:She struggles with self-doubt about being perceived as "too whimsical" but has a big heart and a creative spirit

Meeting Location:The upcoming community arts festival in the local park

CHAPTER TWO

JASMINE

I dab my brush into a blend of crimson and cadmium yellow, watching the colors swirl together like a sunset caught in a raindrop. With a flick of my wrist, I add another petal to the wild rose taking shape on my canvas. Each stroke brings the flower to life—not a perfect botanical illustration, but something wilder. Something moreme. The rose emerges with delicate imperfections (a slight tear in one petal, a subtle discoloration in another), exactly as I found it growing stubbornly between cracks in a forgotten corner of the park.

"There you are," I whisper to the painting. "Coming out to play finally." I lean in closer, adding tiny veins to the petals with my finest brush, the kind of detail most viewers might never consciously notice but would feel somehow.

My studio—actually just the spare bedroom of my apartment—catches the morning light perfectly. The eastern exposure bathes everything in a golden glow that makes even my paint-splattered drop cloths look artistic. Canvases in various stages of completion lean against every wall, some barely started with just a whisper of an idea, others nearly finished but waiting for thatfinal spark of inspiration. Dried flowers hang from strings across the ceiling—Queen Anne's lace, lavender sprigs, black-eyed Susans—spinning slowly in the breeze from the cracked window. My inspiration wall is a chaotic collage of torn magazine pages, pressed petals, and handwritten quotes about art and nature. A postcard from Monet's garden in Giverny. A dried dandelion I preserved after making a wish on it last summer.

This is my sanctuary. My safe place. The only room where I never question myself.

I step back from the easel, tilting my head to study my work, smudging a bit of paint on my cheek without realizing it. The wild rose painting is nearly finished. It's part of my new collection for the community arts festival this weekend. Ten pieces celebrating wildflowers that most people overlook. The ones that grow in sidewalk cracks and abandoned lots. The fighters. The survivors. Not the cultivated beauties in manicured gardens, but the ones that make their own way against all odds. I've spent weeks scouting forgotten corners of parks and empty lots, photographing and sketching these resilient blooms in their natural habitats.

My phone buzzes with a text from Zara, my friend who's helped me secure a booth at the festival. The screen lights up with her name and the little flower emoji I've assigned to her contact.

Elena: How's the painting coming? Can't wait to see everything displayed!

Me: Almost done with the wild rose. Just hope people connect with them. Sometimes I worry they're not serious enough for collectors.

Elena: They will. Your work makes people feel things. That's what great art does.

That's exactly what I fear. What if the feelings my paintings evoke are disappointment? Or worse—indifference?

I set down my brush and wander to the kitchen for more coffee, carefully stepping over the drop cloths protecting my hardwood floors. Paint splatters mark the path I travel daily between easel and coffee pot—a colorful trail of my creative process. My apartment is small but flooded with natural light—a lucky find in this neighborhood. The rent stretches my budget to its limit, but the light makes it worth every penny. Plants crowd every windowsill, each one named after a different artist. Monet, my sprawling pothos, needs watering. Georgia, my stubborn succulent, is finally sprouting a new leaf after months of seeming dormancy. A tiny fiddle leaf fig I've named Frida is struggling, but I refuse to give up on her.

"Morning, friends," I murmur, touching a leaf here, a stem there. "Anyone feeling particularly inspiring today?" People think it's quirky that I talk to my plants, but they don't understand. These silent green companions are better listeners than most humans. They never tell me to be more practical or suggest I try painting "something people actually want to buy."

The coffee machine gurgles as I gaze out my kitchen window at the maple tree outside. Its leaves have just started turning, showing hints of orange and gold among the green. Nature's own artwork, changing every day. I've been meaning to capture that transition in a painting but haven't found the right approach yet. How do you paint something that's between states, neither what it was nor what it will become?

My phone rings, startling me from my reverie. My gallery owner's name flashes on the screen, and I take a deep breath before answering.

"Morning, Marcus," I answer, trying to sound more awake and professional than I feel with paint in my hair and coffee not yet in my system.

"Jasmine! How's my favorite floral artist?" His voice booms through the speaker, full of the confidence I always envy. "Just checking on your pieces for the festival. The last show generated quite a buzz, you know. People are asking when they can see more of your work. That couple from Westside bought the large peony piece and apparently it's become quite the conversation starter in their dining room."

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