Page 6 of Love in Full Bloom

He turns, and I find myself looking up—way up—into the most startlingly kind eyes I've ever seen. They crinkle at the corners ashe takes in my distress, laugh lines deepening. Instead of anger, I see amusement warming his expression.

"Well," he says, his voice deep and surprisingly gentle, "I was planning to introduce myself, but I didn't expect it to be quite so... memorable."

Heat floods my cheeks as I dab ineffectively at his shirt. "I've ruined your clothes. I'm so sorry. I was trying to save my paintings from the wind and didn't see you and?—"

"The paintings are more important than the shirt," he interrupts, glancing back at my display. "That meadow piece especially. It's extraordinary."

I stop my frantic dabbing, napkins frozen mid-motion. "You... like it?"

"Like is an understatement." He turns back to look at the painting again, seemingly unconcerned about the coffee soaking into his shirt. "The way you've captured how those plants interact with each other—competing but also supporting—it's exactly how they behave in nature. Most people miss that relationship entirely."

I stare at him, momentarily forgetting my embarrassment. Most viewers comment on the colors or the composition, but he's noticed the ecological relationships I tried to convey. The delicate balance between competition and cooperation that allows these plants to thrive together.

"That's exactly what I was trying to show," I say, my voice softer now. "How they create a community."

Another gust of wind sends my business cards flying again, and we both instinctively move to catch them. Our hands brush aswe reach for the same card, and I feel a tiny jolt of awareness at the contact. His hands are strong and tanned, with calluses that speak of outdoor work.

"I should probably help you secure these before we lose everything," he says, glancing around my booth with an appraising eye. "Do you have any weights for the easels? Or maybe we could angle them differently against the wind."

"I brought some rocks," I admit, "but clearly not enough."

He smiles, and something flutters in my chest. "Rocks are good. I might have something better, though." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small roll of what looks like gardening wire. "May I?"

When I nod, he moves to the first easel, quickly and efficiently securing it with the wire, creating an anchor that's both functional and nearly invisible. His movements are precise, practiced, as though he's used to working with his hands to solve practical problems.

"You came prepared for an art festival," I observe, watching him work.

He glances up with a smile that transforms his entire face. "I came prepared for a day outdoors. Habit from my job."

"Which is?"

"Landscape architect." He secures another painting, this time my wild rose. "I design gardens and outdoor spaces."

Suddenly his interest in my work makes perfect sense. "So you work with plants professionally."

"I do. Though I tend to focus more on structural elements—trees, shrubs, architectural grasses. The bones of a garden." He pauses, looking at my dandelion painting. "I've never given much thought to wildflowers. I've always considered them too unpredictable for designed spaces."

"That's exactly why I love them," I say, feeling a spark of passion warming my voice. "They don't follow rules. They find their own way."

His eyes meet mine, and something passes between us—a moment of recognition, perhaps. Understanding.

"I'm Ben Thompson," he says, extending his hand.

"Jasmine Carter," I reply, taking it. His palm is warm against mine, his grip firm but gentle.

"I know," he says, then looks slightly embarrassed. "I mean, I saw your name on the booth. And Krissa mentioned there might be a floral artist here."

"Krissa? From the dating agency?" The pieces suddenly click into place. "Wait, are you?—"

"Her client? Apparently." He runs a hand through his hair, looking slightly sheepish. "My sister signed me up. Said I spend too much time with plants and not enough with people."

I laugh, surprised by his candor. "Zara's been trying to convince me to sign up for months. She says I need to meet someone who appreciates my 'unique perspective.'"

"Well," Ben says, his eyes returning to my paintings, "she wasn't wrong about that part."

Another gust of wind rushes through the booth, but this time everything stays put thanks to Ben's improvised solutions. We both look around, satisfied, and I realize we're standing closer than strictly necessary, my shoulder nearly touching his arm.

"So," I say, suddenly aware of how easy it feels to talk to him, "what do landscape architects think about artists who paint weeds instead of proper garden flowers?"

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