Page 132 of Wisteria and Cloves
The road curved ahead, and I caught glimpses of open fields dotted with wildflowers. There was something magical about the landscape—untamed and beautiful in a way that made my chest tight with unexpected emotion.
"Miles," I said softly, "this is gorgeous."
"Wait until you see what's next," he murmured, turning onto a narrow gravel path that seemed to disappear into a grove of ancient oak trees. We drove in comfortable silence for another few minutes before he pulled into a small clearing. Ahead of us stood a rustic wooden barn, its weathered red paint faded to a soft rose color that gleamed in the morning sunlight. Beside it was a small farmhouse with white trim and a wraparound porch, smoke curling lazily from its chimney.
"Miles," I breathed, my voice filled with wonder as I took in the scene before us. "What is this place?"
"My grandmother's farm," he said quietly, turning off the engine. "She left it to me when she passed five years ago. I've been restoring it slowly, when I need to escape the city."
I stared at him, this revelation adding another layer to the man I thought I was beginning to understand. "You never mentioned..."
"I don't talk about it much," he admitted, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "It's my sanctuary. The only place that's ever felt completely mine." He paused, lookingat me with those deep green eyes. "I wanted to show you and give you a new experience.”
I titled my head to the side, “New experience?”
Miles grinned, “A picnic slash camping experience. I had Chris pack some things for us to cook over the fire.”
My heart skipped at the thought. "Camping? I've never..." I trailed off, realizing how that must sound. "I mean, my parents weren't exactly the outdoorsy type."
"I figured as much," Miles said gently, his hand reaching over to squeeze mine. "That's why I thought you might enjoy it. Nothing too rustic—there's running water and electricity in the house if we need it. But I set up a proper campsite by the creek."
I felt a flutter of excitement mixed with nervousness. "You really planned all this?"
"Christopher helped with the food, and Julian may have contributed some camping gear that costs more than most people's cars," Miles admitted with a chuckle. "But the idea was all mine. I wanted to give you something your parents never would have—freedom to be messy, to sit by a fire, to sleep under the stars if you want to stay the whole day and night."
The mention of sleeping under the stars made my pulse quicken—not from fear, but from anticipation. "You want me to stay the night?" I asked, my voice softer than intended.
Miles's eyes darkened slightly, but his voice remained gentle. "Only if you want to. I brought everything we'd need—sleeping bags, a proper tent, extra blankets. But we can head back tonight if you'd prefer."
I looked out at the peaceful farmhouse, the way the morning light danced through the oak leaves, the promise of a crackling fire and Miles's undivided attention. "I'd like to stay," I said, surprising myself with how quickly I decided. "It sounds perfect."
His smile was radiant. "Good. Come on, let me show you around."
Miles climbed out and came around to open my door, offering his hand to help me down. The gravel crunched soft under my boots as we walked toward the farmhouse. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of wood smoke, autumn leaves, and something indefinitely fresh that made me want to breathe deeper.
"The house has been in my family for three generations," Miles explained as we approached the porch steps. "My grandmother grew up here, raised my father here. When she got older and couldn't manage the upkeep, she moved to town, but she could never bring herself to sell it."
I ran my fingers along the smooth wooden railing, worn soft by decades of hands. "It feels loved," I said, not sure how else to describe the warmth that seemed to emanate from the very walls.
Miles paused, his hand on the front door. "That's exactly what she used to say. That houses knew when they were loved."
He pushed open the door, and I stepped into a living room that was a perfect blend of rustic charm and careful restoration—exposed wooden beams crossed the ceiling, while a stone fireplace dominated one wall, its hearth already laid with kindling. Comfortable furniture in soft earth tones invited relaxation, and family photographs in mismatched frames covered every available surface.
"Miles, this is incredible," I breathed, taking in the details that spoke of love and attention. Hand-sewn quilts draped over the backs of chairs, mason jars filled with dried wildflowers, a bookshelf that looked like it had been built by hand decades ago.
"She was quite the homemaker," Miles said, his voice soft with memory. "Always had something cooking on the stove, always had room for one more at the dinner table." He picked up aframed photograph from the mantle—a woman with kind eyes and silver hair, her arms around a younger looking Miles.
"She would have loved you," he said quietly, studying the photograph. "She always said the best judge of character was watching how someone treated the simple things—a cup of tea, a garden flower, a quiet moment."
I moved closer to look at the picture, seeing the resemblance in their eyes, the same gentle warmth. "She raised you?"
"Summers and weekends," Miles nodded, setting the frame back carefully. "My parents were... busy with their careers. Grandmother was the one who taught me that worth wasn't measured in quarterly profits or social standing."
The vulnerability in his admission made my chest tight. Here was another piece of Miles I hadn't known existed—the boy who'd found refuge in this farmhouse, just as I'd found refuge with them.
"I'm honored you brought me here," I said softly, meaning every word.
Miles turned to face me fully, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "I've never brought anyone here before. Not Julian, not Christopher, not even Nicolaus. This place has always been just mine."
