"Complicated?" I offer.
"I was going to say unexpected."
"Good unexpected or terrifying unexpected?"
"Both." His honesty is endearing. "I don't do this, Daisy."
"You don’t fall for city girls who talk to groundhogs?"
A real smile now, transforming his face. "Something like that."
The moment stretches between us, full of possibility and fear in equal measure. I should tell him about the email, about Janet, about the countdown that feels both more important and less significant with every passing second.
Before I can find the words, Rascal apparently decides we've had enough serious conversation. He jumps up, somehow manages to step directly into the small jar of pencils, then panics at the rattling sound and bolts straight into Rowan's lap, pencils flying everywhere.
"Rascal!" I lunge for him, overbalancing and sending us all sprawling in a tangle of limbs, fur, and art supplies.
I land half on top of Rowan, who has somehow managed to catch both me and my ridiculous dog. For a moment, we freeze in the absurdity of the situation. The dignified groundskeeper flat on his back, a yapping Yorkie on his chest, and me sprawled inelegantly across his legs.
Then he laughs. Not a chuckle or a snort, but a real, deep laugh that I feel rumble through his chest. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
"Your dog," he manages between laughs, "is a menace to society."
"But you like him anyway," I say, not moving from my position.
"I like his owner more." The words slip out naturally, but their impact silences us both.
Carefully, I shift until we're side by side on the floor of the small blind, Rascal now contentedly settled between us as if this whole disaster was his plan all along. Maybe it was.
"I still have to leave in eight days," I say finally, the words painful but necessary.
"I know." His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining.
"And I have to get back to my place. My life."
"Hmm."
"And we barely know each other."
His thumb traces patterns on my palm. "Don't we though?"
The question hangs between us, profound in its simplicity. Because in some ways, he's right. He knows how I take my coffee, which flowers make me stop to sketch, how I talk to animals when I think no one's listening. And I know how he moves through the forest, the rare beauty of his genuine smile, how gentle his hands can be despite their strength.
"What are we doing, Rowan?"
"I don't know," he admits. "But I'd like to find out."
Chapter Ten
Rowan
Ilose myself in the rhythm of preparing seedling trays, my fingers working methodically through the rich potting soil. The repetitive motion helps quiet my mind, gives me something tangible to focus on instead of the memory of Daisy's lips on mine, the way her eyes lit up when she saw the wildlife blind, how perfectly she fit against me when we fell.
Seven hours since I left her at her cabin, and I still can't shake the feeling that something fundamental has shifted. Like tectonic plates moving beneath seemingly solid ground.
Eight days. That's all we have left. Eight days until she returns to the city, to her real life. Whatever this is—this connection, this pull between us—it has an expiration date. I know this. I've known it from the start.
So why did I build her that blind? Why did I kiss her again? Why am I carefully labeling these mountain laurel seedlings with her name when I should be reinforcing the walls around my heart instead?
