Chapter 38 The Conservatory
The Conservatory
Renée
Amber waves me off with the smug grin only a sister can pull off. “Have fun and don’t even look at your phone tonight.”
“But you’ll call if there’s an emergency, right?”
Amber shuts the door in my face, and I’m left standing on my front porch in the black gown Jonah bought me for his brother’s wedding.
Silky black material hugs my waist; the high slit makes my short legs appear long.
This dress has absolutely no business being worn by a woman who spent the afternoon vacuuming kinetic sand out of the carpet.
But Jonah asked. Actually, Jonah begged, in the soft, earnest way that turns my brain to goo and makes my insides fizzle like champagne bubbles.
He’s waiting beside his sparkling SUV, leaning against the door like he’s posing for the Sexiest Man Alive. He’s not wearing the same tuxedo he did the night of the wedding. Instead he sports a tailored, dark blue dinner coat with black lapels, a bowtie, and trousers. I could ogle him for hours.
His eyes widen, and he bounds toward me. “You look like you should step out of a limo in Monte Carlo.” He leans in for a kiss, and I can’t refrain from touching his chest. Red lipstick transfers to his lips, but I don’t wipe it away. He’s mine, and everyone will know it.
Rich blue eyes scan me from head to toe, and he grins. “You wore it. The dress.”
“You asked.”
He leads me to his SUV and opens my door—a perfect gentleman who instinctively knows how to please me.
And it’s those little unnecessary gestures—like the way he lifts me into the seat so I don’t work too hard and disturb my elegance—that I find so meaningful.
They’re the kind of gestures my late husband only used around other people to make himself look good.
I shake the thought away before it steals our special night.
“Are you going to tell me what you have planned?” I ask once we’re on the road.
“We’re going to the Longwood Conservatory,” he says, his voice vibrating with barely contained excitement.
“Jonah,” I beam. “God, that’s going to be so beautiful.”
He takes my hand in his and brings it to his lips. “Nothing is as beautiful as you.”
My chest flutters because I’m not immune to a genuine compliment from a genuine man—especially not from this genuine man.
When we arrive, the sun is setting, turning the glass conservatory gold. Twinkling lights wind up the walkways, and the air smells like jasmine and damp earth. It’s beyond romantic, and I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date as picturesque as this.
We wander through a greenhouse filled with towering palms, burbling fountains, and lush succulents. Jonah tucks my hand under his bicep—so easy and confident, like he knows he’s allowed to.
“Are we the only ones here?”
“We are. I reserved it.”
My face drops. “I didn’t know they allowed that.”
“They do if you make a sizable donation.”
I have to collect myself for a moment before staring at him. “Jonah. How much did you donate?”
“Let me spoil you,” he chuckles, like he’s gotten away with some harmless crime, and tugs me along.
After a few minutes, we stop to admire wisteria hanging from an archway, and he clears his throat. “So, I’ve been thinking about the future.”
Uh-oh. The memory bursts through my mind of Delta asking if Jonah and I could get married, and my body temperature plummets.
“The future?” I try to sound normal.
“Yeah.” He kicks at a pebble. “I really want to do something with the animals. I enjoy rescuing them. Rehabilitation, maybe. Just... something that actually helps.”
Warmth spreads in my chest, and I can breathe again.
“You know, I was thinking about this last night,” I say.
“Lo hadn’t spoken for over two years, and I know without a doubt it was because of trauma surrounding her father.
But we saw how she bloomed around you and the animals.
You offered this safe space to her, to all of us.
She was so comfortable around the dogs—and we saw firsthand how they helped her do that.
What if you opened an animal therapy farm? ”
“Like a vet’s office?”
“No. People use animal therapy, or animal-assisted therapy, for medical, social, and emotional issues. You know how special therapy dogs will go into hospitals to comfort patients? It’s like that but more goal-oriented, and patients would come to your farm.
“You’d partner with a veterinarian—hello Dane”—I waggle my eyebrows—“and a therapist or a team of them.”
“My sister Angie is a children’s therapist,” he says, wheels turning.
“Even better. And if this isn’t in her repertoire, she can probably help find you someone who would be a good fit. This could be perfect for you.”
His broad shoulders drop like he’s been carrying that hope quietly for too long. “You think?”
I squeeze his hand. “I know.”
His expression softens in a way I’ve never seen. “Renée, that’s... that’s everything. We could do that. We could make something like that.”
My heart stumbles. We. He said we.
I swallow. “You want me to do it with you?”
“Of course.”
“Jonah, I don’t know. I think it’s a great idea, but I can’t leave my job.”
“I mean...” He shrugs. “I have more than enough to take care of you.”
“I know, but I need my job as a safety net. You know I trust you, but I need the ability to support myself if need be.”
He holds my hands—a flicker of doubt, perhaps, appearing then vanishing—before thumbing circles on them. He speaks with a gentle, pleading expression. “Renée, I’m planning my future around you. I need you to know that.”
My chin trembles and I nod, deciding now—now is the time to bite the bullet. “I don’t want to be married ever again.” The words spill out fast, tangled with fear and honesty. “I can’t. After everything with Greg, after what he—” I stop and recenter. “I will not rely on anyone like that again.”
Jonah steps closer, anchoring me. There’s a fierceness in his eyes, and his voice is quiet. “If that’s not what you want, then I don’t want that either. All I want is to love you and the girls for the rest of my life. That’s it. Whatever it looks like, in whatever way you’ll have me.”
There’s suddenly a lump in my throat like a boulder, making it difficult to swallow.
Each breath I take constricts me, as if a vise is slowly tightening around my neck.
The sting behind my eyelids intensifies, and I blink rapidly, trying to force back the tears that threaten to spill over.
My vision blurs slightly, and the world around me seems to soften at the edges.
“And you know as well as I do I’m nothing like him,” he says, so self-assured and intense, but he’s right.
Compared to the older man I married when I was twenty-two, this ridiculous, soft-hearted rugby player, with a barn full of emotional-support livestock, is more mature, more responsible, and more loving.
He may be young at heart, and fourteen years my junior, but Jonah Johanssen is more than the safety and security I’ve longed for.
He’s gentle.
And gentle is what I need.
I stare into the calming sapphire eyes of the man who always waits for me. “Jonah?”
“Hm?”
The air hangs thick and heavy, saturated with the scent of wisteria and damp earth.
My breath hitches, and there's a knot of anticipation tightening in my stomach.
This is it—the culmination of months of unspoken feelings, the dismantling of plans, and a growing sense of exhilaration and dread.
I take a deep breath, trying to imprint every detail of this moment before I change everything.
“I love you.”
His inhale is sharp. Then, a grin spreads across his face, a blinding flash of white teeth that blaze with the intensity of the sun itself.
His eyes change from a calm, steady blue, now sparkling with an unrestrained joy.
He leans forward, voice laced with a breathless, infectious energy, the words tumbling out in a rush.
“Yeah? Because I love you too! A lot, like... aggressively too much.” He laughs, the sound vibrant and full as our declaration hangs in the air, weighted with our history and the overwhelming emotions that have finally found their voice.
I giggle and clutch my hands into his chest. “That sounds threatening.”
“It is. I’m aggressively in love with you.”
When he kisses me, it’s not a playful, flirty kiss, like we’ve shared in stolen moments. It’s deeper and steadier—a promise without the claustrophobia of one.
He’s not the boy I thought I was protecting us from—he’s the man I didn’t know we were waiting for.
After the private dinner he had booked, where I let him feed me dessert and stare into my eyes like the disgusting lovers we are, he drove home the long way with my hand in his lap and delivered kisses to every finger.
“Keep going,” I say, before he turns into my driveway. “I want to stay at your place tonight.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” He smiles because he knows exactly what I want, but there’s a hint of an emotion I can’t place.
“Is everything okay?”
“Of course,” he says, turning into his driveway before flicking his gaze toward me. “My gorgeous girlfriend told me she loved me tonight. I’m not sure I could feel any better.”
King greets us at the door, and we promptly give him the love he wants, but his heart nearly breaks when Jonah tries to close him out of the bedroom.
“Bro, don’t give me those eyes.” He sighs and squats down to press their faces together.
“I’ll see what she says after she’s had her way with me,” he stage-whispers.
I giggle and scratch behind the old shepherd’s ears. “Sorry, buddy. This is for my eyes only.”
By some miracle we convince the dog to hang out in the den. When Jonah's bedroom door shuts, he removes his dinner coat and kneels before me with his hands on my shoes and his forehead on the rug.
Desire courses through my veins, and I stare at the white dress shirt pulled taut over his back muscles. “You spoiled me tonight, puppy. I’d like to reward you for making me so happy.”