11. Celeste #4
There he was again. Hood and honorable in the same breath. Not perfect. Not pretending. Just disciplined enough to know his strength needed boundaries before pain gave it bad instructions.
“Did it make you bitter?” I asked.
“For a season.” He leaned back, still holding my hand.
“Not against women. Against my own hope. I didn’t stop believing good women existed.
I was raised by too many to be that foolish.
But I stopped trusting the part of me that wanted to build with somebody.
I thought maybe wanting a wife made me vulnerable to being played. ”
“And now?”
His eyes held mine. “Now I think the wrong woman taught me what discernment costs when I ignore it.”
“I’m not Domonique.”
“I know.”
“And you’re not Jamal.”
“I know that too.”
We sat with that.
His jaw shifted like my words had brushed against an old bruise.
“I’ve had to learn the difference between loyalty and surrender,” he said. “Sometimes, you think standing beside somebody means standing in front of consequences that were never yours to carry.”
I went still.
His thumb moved once across my knuckles, slow and controlled, but his eyes had gone somewhere far away.
“There’s more to that story,” he said. “Just not tonight.”
I nodded, even though curiosity pressed at the back of my teeth.
Tonight had already asked enough of both of us.
His hand warmed mine again. “I don’t need you to be who you were before grief. I’m not trying to date a ghost of your old life.”
My breath caught.
He continued before I could respond. “And I’m not asking you to trust me because I sound good under flowers. Watch me. Let your children watch me. Let time tell on me. I’m not scared of consistency.”
My chest filled until breathing took effort.
“Do you know how attractive that is?” I asked.
His smile came slow. “You flirting with me, Ms. Coleman?”
“I might be.”
“Under mood lighting?”
“With tea.”
“And charcuterie,” he added.
I laughed, and that time, nothing in me tried to punish the sound.
After we finished eating, he led me through the conservatory with my hand tucked in his. We wandered deeper into the conservatory beneath orchids, herbs, and citrus trees.
“Plants send electrical signals too,” he said near a wall of climbing jasmine.
I looked over at him. “Now you’re just trying to make everything about your trade.”
“No, listen. Plants respond to touch, light, injury, water, all of it. Not like us with nerves, but they communicate. Roots talk through chemical signals. Trees share resources through fungal networks underground. Whole systems helping each other survive where nobody can see.”
I stared at him.
He glanced down at me. “What?”
“You’re fine.” His steps slowed. “And smart,” I added. “Which is honestly inconvenient.”
His smile turned wicked around the edges. “Inconvenient?”
“Very. I was prepared to resist broad shoulders. I was not prepared to resist plant science.”
He laughed, and I loved that I had caused it.
We stopped near a lemon tree tucked beside a stone bench. A few lanterns hung above us, spilling warm light over his face. He reached up and brushed a stray loc away from my cheek, his fingers grazing my skin with the same care he had used before our first kiss.
“You having a good time?” he asked.
I nodded. “Too good.”
His thumb rested near my jaw. “That scare you?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once, accepting it without making me defend it. “Still want to be here?”
“Yes.”
His eyes lowered to my mouth.
“Can I kiss you?”
I looked around. A couple passed near the orchids, laughing over a shared pastry. The fountain moved somewhere behind us. My pulse answered before my fear did.
“Yes.”
He leaned down and kissed me beneath the lemon tree.
This kiss was not as careful as the first, though it was still controlled.
It knew me a little now. It remembered my mouth.
It knew I would lean in if given time, knew my fingers would curl into his shirt, knew I would make that small sound if his hand settled at the side of my face and his thumb moved near my cheek.
He kissed me like a man who wanted more and had already decided more would have to wait until it could be held with both desire and wisdom.
When he pulled back, I stayed close.
“That was different,” I whispered.
His forehead touched mine. “Too much?”
“No.”
“Not enough?”
I smacked his chest lightly, and he laughed against my mouth before stealing one more kiss—shorter, sweeter, dangerous in a way that made my knees remember they had responsibilities.
His hand rested at the side of my neck, thumb beneath my jaw, eyes holding mine with a patience that felt more devastating than pressure ever could have.
“You make me want to ask God twice before I touch you once,” he said. “And I need you to understand what that means, because I’m not saying I don’t want you. I’m saying I want you bad enough to keep my hands obedient.”
My breath left me in pieces. “Josiah.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You’re dangerous.”
His smile came slow, beautiful, and entirely too sure. “No. I’m intentional. Dangerous would be wanting you without discipline.”
I looked away before my face said everything my mouth wasn’t ready to confess.
He turned my hand over and traced the center of my palm with his thumb. “Look at me, Celeste.”
I did.
God help me, I did.
“I can wait on your heart, but don’t ask me to pretend I don’t know it’s worth waiting for.”
We walked again, because standing still with him felt like a risk my outfit had not been designed to survive.
Near the back of the conservatory, The Blooming Room opened into a small courtyard under glass where guests could plant small cuttings in clay pots to take home.
Josiah had reserved two spots for us at a wooden worktable with soil, gloves, tiny trowels, and rows of herbs and flowering plants waiting in starter containers.
I looked at him. “You planned a planting activity?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You trying to make me fall in love on the first date?”
The words came out before I could stop them.
Both of us froze.
My heart slammed once, then tried to flee the scene.