Page 49 of Wild Flower

“What’s this one?” Archer asks, unhooking the button on the strap of my overall so he can run his fingers across the yellow blossoms that tattoo my chest.

“Saphora chrysophylla,” I answer without looking down, enjoying the way his fingers whisper across the tops of my breasts. It’s followed by the whisper of Finn’s shutter photographing. “It’s in the fabaceae family, which you’d know as a legume.”

“That flower is a bean?” Archer asks.

“It produces winged fruits and woody seeds,” I reply.

“And why is that one front and center?” Archer asks, tracing my skin again. It’s the first tattoo everyone notices because it’s so large and obvious.

“It’s native to Hawaii,” I explain, eyeing his medallion before looking at him, silently pointing out that he’s asking questions now, after previously avoiding mine. “We have several of them growing along the edge of the property.”

I point past my farm to where the bushes are growing, but from a distance the yellow flowers are hard to make out.

“I was obsessed with them as a child. I thought they were so pretty. They’re the first flower I wanted to look up and understand. How did it grow? What did all the pieces do? Why does a pod turn into a flower and then a bean? I’m sure there was a time, for both of you, when something sparked your curiosity and it became a passion.” I motion to Finn who’s listening while photographing. “Taking photos for instance. At some point you saw a photograph and it stopped you in your tracks. Lit a fire inside you.”

Finn nods, listing off the names of several photographers I’ve never heard of. I look at Archer, waiting for him to share what excited him when he was a child, but he doesn’t answer, holding that card close to his chest, just like his medallion.

“In retrospect,” I say, letting Archer off the hook. “Saphora chrysophylla, or mamane as the Hawaiian’s call them, are rather common, unlike the species in my greenhouse. Trust me, you’ll start seeing mamane all over the place now that I’ve pointed them out.”

Archer kisses me.

It’s surprising and lovely as his large arms wrap my waist. I fall into the kiss, and I have to admit, it’s a surprising and welcome reaction. Most men get glossy-eyed and bored when I start talking about flowers.

I don’t know if these are the type of photos that Finn wants, but he doesn’t direct us or tell us to stop. Instead, I hear him circle and snap, capturing whatever this moment inspires.

“Rebecca Evangeline Laurel!” My mother’s voice fists over my heart like a Venus fly trap snatching its supper. “Explain yourself.”

Adrenaline floods my chest. I pull away from Archer and turn to my mother’s barking. She marches down one of the flower aisles, far enough away to give me time to untangle myself from the man next to me, but close enough that her tone and frown are sharp as ice.

“That’s my mother,” I say quickly to Archer and Finn. “Hold on. Give me a minute.” I bee-line it toward her, leaving the two of them behind me in the golden rays of the late-afternoon. I snatch my overall strap as I march up to her, clicking my clothes back in place. Did she see Archer’s hands grazing me?

“What are you doing?” she snaps, angry hands on her hips.

“Uh, we’re, uh—nothing,” I stumble for words. “I mean, it’s a photoshoot—for uh—”

I don’t know what to say. How do I explain the two of them to her? Or why Archer was kissing me? Or the fact that Finn was inspired and photographing us making out? Every reason I’m standing here at sunset with these men is the opposite of what my mother deems appropriate.

“You did not ask permission,” my mother hisses.

Permission? It’smyflower farm.

I don’t say that, of course, because the land is her’s and my father’s. It’s their backyard.

“I didn’t think I needed permission to hang out with some friends—”

“Friends?” she interrupts, her tone accusing.

Archerwaskissing me.

My mother’s eyes cut over my shoulder, and I startle when arms wrap around me from behind. The scent of cloves hits me as Archer snuggles against my neck, his whole body pressed against my back as he drapes his gorgeous arms over my shoulders.

“Hi,” he says kindly, holding me against him as he addresses my mother. “You must be Mrs. Laurel. I’m Archer. I’m dating your daughter.”

My mother’s eyes narrow like a hawk. “Excuse me.”

Archer extends his hand. “Archer Kaine. We haven’t been properly introduced.”

“I’m sorry,whendid you start dating my daughter?” my mother asks, not taking his hand, and Archer wraps his heaving arms over me like a shawl at my mother’s dismissal.

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