I was quiet for a few moments, thinking about his friend’s advice. If I’d followed that philosophy, maybe I wouldn’t have given up on my own book.
He was right. Art was subjective. You could show a painting to a hundred people and get a hundred different opinions.
Books were art as well. What if that writing teacher’s devastating words were just one opinion? Maybe my prosewasn’tthe “worst drivel ever put to paper.”
“Here we are.” Apparently, my pace had lagged, because Jack was several yards ahead of me, standing by the tall hedge I’d noticed upon arriving here today.
I caught up to him. “What is it?”
He grinned. “You’ll see. But first, I want you to close your eyes.”
“Ooookay.” I dragged the word out, placing my hands over my closed lids.
Jack touched the small of my back ever so lightly, guiding me forward. The unexpected contact gave me a pleasant shiver.
“Good. Now take four steps ahead—don’t worry—I won’t let you fall into a ditch or anything.”
“There’s a ditch?” I stopped in place.
“No.” He chuckled. “Not even a divot. Keep walking. Trust me. Alright… now what do you smell?”
I inhaled deeply. A sweet, heady scent filled my senses. “Roses,” I exclaimed with a smile. “I love roses.”
Dropping my hands from my eyes, I looked around. We were inside the hedge, which I now realized concealed a secret garden.
There were roses of every hue. Some of the bushes were petite with delicate pale buds. Some stretched high and bore big, audaciously colored blooms. Walking from rose bush to rose bush, I bent to take in their individual perfumes.
When I looked up at Jack again, he gave me a knowing grin. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. A ticklish flutter moved in my belly, causing me to place my hand over it.
“I thought you’d like it here,” he said.
“You were right. This garden is incredible.” I walked again, stroking the soft petals of a yellow rose as I passed it. “Did you plant it?”
“No. I wish I had a thumb this green. It was here already. This garden is why I bought the place.”
That took me by surprise. “It wasn’t the spectacular ocean view, or the indoor bowling alley, or the shower the size of a car wash that did it for you?”
He laughed. “Not gonna lie—those didn’t hurt.”
Strolling over to a bench in the garden’s center, he took a seat and bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees. When he tilted his head to look up at me, the sunlight hit his irises, turning them into gemstones worthy of Tiffany’s.
His smile faded, and his face grew serious. “But no. As soon as the realtor showed me this garden, I knew I had to have this place. My mother loved roses. She grew them in our little backyard. They were beautiful. When I was young, I used to get my fingers all cut up, picking them for her.”
He smiled again, but it was sad. “She never once fussed at me for destroying her prized flowers. She’d just say I’d found the absolute prettiest one on the bush and put it in a glass of water on the counter.”
My heart contracted with a sweet pain. I’d lost my mother as an adult, and it had been terrible. I couldn’t imagine how devastating it was to lose your mom as a young child.
“I’m so sorry.” My voice sounded a bit choked. “How did she die?”
“Breast cancer. Brutal disease. No one should ever have to go through what she went through. I give ten percent of the royalties from every book to a charity that provides help for women coping with it—things like helping with utilities and rent and childcare and rides to treatment, whatever they need most.”
“I didn’t know that.”
How had I read just about every article ever written on the man and been unaware of his extensive charitable contributions? Ten percent of the royalties on the Onyx series had to equal a fortune.
He stood abruptly, his brows drawn together and his tone sharpening. “Don’t print that. It’s off the record.”
“But why not? People would—”
