Page 5 of Love in Full Bloom

Not just any wildflowers, but paintings that capture their essence in a way I've never seen before. Not botanical illustrations with scientific precision, but emotional interpretations that somehow convey the spirit of each bloom. A dandelion pushing through concrete radiates defiance, its yellow petals almost glowing against the gray. A wild rose with slightly torn petals speaks of resilience, its imperfections making it more captivating than a perfect specimen. Queen Anne's lace capturing dewdrops shimmers with unexpected beauty, transforming what many consider a roadside weed into something magical.

I move closer, drawn by the raw emotion in the work. These aren't the showy, cultivated blooms I typically avoid in my designs. I've always preferred the architectural quality of foliage, like the texture of ferns, the structure of ornamental grasses, the form of shrubs. Flowers always seemed too fleeting, too obvious in their appeal, too dependent on perfect conditions.

But these paintings make me see wildflowers differently. They're survivors. Fighters. They create beauty in unlikely places without anyone's help or permission. They don't need carefully amended soil or irrigation systems. They find a way to thrive in the margins, in the forgotten spaces, in the cracks of our constructed world.

As I study the collection, I notice a larger piece slightly apart from the others. It's a meadow scene where all the individual flowers grow together in what should be chaos but instead forms a harmonious whole. Queen Anne's lace creates a delicate architecture above nodding black-eyed Susans. Chicory adds splashes of periwinkle blue. Clover forms a soft groundcover beneath it all. It's breathtaking in its complexity and emotion, capturing both the individual character of each species and the community they create together.

"What do you think?"

I turn to find Krissa beside me, a knowing smile playing at her lips. She looks completely in her element in a vintage-style dress with a full skirt, her height accentuated by red heels.

"They're incredible," I admit. "Not what I expected. There's something about the way she captures these plants. It's like she's painting their personalities, not just their appearance."

"The artist should be back any minute. She just ran to grab coffee." Krissa glances at her watch. "I need to check on another client, but you should stay and meet her. Jasmine Carter. She has a fascinating perspective on finding beauty in overlooked places. I think you two might have more in common than you'd expect."

Before I can respond, she's gone, disappearing into the crowd with a wave and leaving me standing before these extraordinary paintings. I move closer to read the small cards beside each piece, handwritten in an expressive, flowing script.

Wild Rose (Rosa canina) – Found growing between cracks in an abandoned parking lot. Nature always finds a way. What would our lives be like if we adapted to difficult circumstances with such grace?

Dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) – Considered a weed by many, but look closer. What persistence. What perfect design. What determination to thrive despite being unwanted. The first food for bees in spring. Medicine in its roots. A wish-maker for children.

Queen Anne's Lace (Daucus carota) – Overlooked beauty that transforms ordinary roadside ditches into fairy wonderlands. Named for a queen but democratic in its growth, offering its lacy canopy to any insect seeking shelter or food.

Each description reveals not just observation but a deep emotional connection to these resilient plants. A perspective that resonates with something long dormant inside me. A reminder of why I fell in love with plants in the first place. Not just for their design potential, but for their inherent character and tenacity.

I'm still standing there, absorbed in the meadow painting, studying how the artist captured the way sunlight filters through the delicate umbels of Queen Anne's lace, when I sense someone approach. Turning, I find myself looking at a woman who embodies the same vibrant energy as her artwork. Auburn hair catches the sunlight, shifting between copper and deep red as she moves. She's shorter than me by nearly a foot, wearing a paint-splattered apron over a dress the color of spring leaves that makes her hazel eyes seem more green than brown. It's those eyes that hold me—flecked with emerald that seem to change intensity as she looks from me to her painting and back again.

She carries two coffee cups and moves with a graceful, expressive energy that immediately draws my attention. A smudge of yellow paint marks her cheekbone like an accidental highlight. Her face is animated, open, curious as she takes me in, her expressions shifting rapidly as though her thoughts are too lively to contain.

Something shifts inside me—a recognition, a possibility—as I realize this must be Jasmine Carter. The artist. The woman Krissa thought I should meet. The creator of these paintings that have awakened something I thought I'd lost. A sense of wonder at the raw, undesigned beauty of the natural world.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel a spark of something beyond professional interest or aesthetic appreciation. I feel a desire to connect. To understand the mind that created these paintings, to know the person who sees beauty where others see weeds, to share my own perspective with someone who might actually understand it.

I turn back to look at the paintings, not wanting to start at her in an upsetting way. That’s when I feel a very warm splash on my back.

CHAPTER FOUR

JASMINE AND BEN

I juggle two coffee cups while attempting to straighten a painting that keeps tilting despite my best efforts. The morning breeze has picked up, just enough to be problematic for my display. Of course this would happen now, when my booth is finally starting to draw attention.

"Stay put," I mutter to the dandelion painting, wedging a small rock under its easel. "Just for a few hours, that's all I'm asking."

The festival bustles around me—musicians tuning instruments, food vendors calling out specials, children darting between booths with colorful pinwheels. I've been setting up since dawn, arranging and rearranging my paintings until each one catches the light just right. The coffee run was supposed to be quick—one for me and one for Zara when she stops by—but the line stretched longer than expected.

As I turn back to my display, I freeze. Someone is studying my meadow painting—the centerpiece of my collection, the one I poured my soul into finishing just yesterday. Not just glancing, but truly looking, leaning in to examine details most people would miss. He's tall with broad shoulders, tousled blond haircatching the sunlight. His posture suggests complete absorption, as though the rest of the noisy festival has disappeared.

I hang back, watching him read the small description cards I labored over. There's something different about the way he studies each painting—methodical but emotional, his expression shifting subtly as he takes in each piece. My heart beats a little faster. This is why I paint—for that moment when someone truly sees what I'm trying to say.

A sudden gust of wind chooses that precise moment to sweep through my booth. Several smaller paintings wobble on their easels, and my carefully arranged business cards scatter like confetti. I lunge forward, trying to save everything at once while still balancing the coffee cups.

"No, no, no!" I yelp as my chicory painting tilts precariously. I make a desperate grab for it, but physics is not on my side. The movement sends one coffee cup flying from my hand, its contents arcing through the air in slow motion.

Directly toward the tall stranger.

I watch in horror as coffee splashes across the back of his light blue shirt, dark droplets speckling the fabric like an abstract painting. The empty cup bounces off his shoulder and rolls away, the perfect punctuation to my mortification.

"I'm so sorry!" I gasp, setting down the surviving coffee cup and rushing toward him with napkins I grab from my supply bag. "The wind just—and then the painting was falling—I didn't see you turn around!"

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