Roses and Revelations

Morning sunlight danced through Ava’s lace curtains, a little too cheerful for someone who’d barely slept. The white rose Marcus sent sat on her nightstand like a secret that refused to wilt.

She sipped her chicory coffee and replayed the words he’d written. Thank you for the dance. Simple, polite — yet it hummed with something that didn’t belong to politeness at all.

By the time she reached the restaurant for brunch, her siblings were already assembled like a board meeting disguised as family. Rory stood behind the counter, wearing his apron like it was military armor.

“Morning, sunshine,” Genevieve said, her earrings catching every beam of light. “Did you enjoy your little garden stroll last night?”

Ava slid onto a stool. “If by ‘stroll’ you mean avoiding your endless questions, yes.”

Theo grinned. “You see him again? The gardener with the billionaire hands?”

Rory shot him a look. “Boy, don’t make up stories.”

“I’m not! Ma, tell him,” Theo pleaded.

Ava stirred her coffee. “He sent a rose.”

The table fell quiet long enough for Genevieve to gasp. “Oh, Lord, it’s official. Our sister’s got herself a plot twist.”

Rory crossed his arms. “Men who send roses have agendas. Usually expensive ones.”

“Then he’ll fit right in,” Ava said.

The door chimed. A courier stepped in with a clipboard and a box embossed with gold letters — du Prée Estate. Ava felt her pulse skip.

“For Ms. St. James,” the courier said.

Genevieve leaned over as Ava opened it. Inside were six small jars of handmade preserves — rose petal, fig, and orange blossom — and a card:

Dinner tonight. No pretense. Just conversation.

— Marcus

Genevieve fanned herself. “You better go, girl. That man don’t just prune roses; he plants intentions.”

Ruth smirked. “If he’s who I think he is, you better bring a contract for Rory.”

Rory sighed. “If she brings him, I’ll bring dessert.”

That evening, the du Prée Estate looked even grander without the crowd. The garden glowed under strings of amber lights, and a small table sat between two rose bushes heavy with bloom.

Marcus appeared, casual but commanding, in a navy shirt and quiet confidence. “You came,” he said.

“You invited,” Ava answered, matching his tone.

He pulled out her chair. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I wasn’t sure you meant it.”

“I did.” He poured wine, the kind that smelled like memory. “Do you always make a man chase you through two counties and a catering schedule?”

“Only the ones worth catching,” she said.

He laughed, deep and genuine, the kind that lived in his chest before it reached his mouth. “You have a sharp tongue.”

“And you have good taste in roses.”

They talked about everything that didn’t matter and hinted at everything that did. About New Orleans and Pasadena. About how families could love you fiercely and still not understand your peace.

Then Marcus said quietly, “My father used to say every man has two gardens — the one outside, and the one in his heart. I’ve neglected both for too long.”

Ava met his eyes. “Then maybe it’s time you let someone help you tend them.”

He smiled, almost shyly. “Maybe that’s why you’re here.”

The night breeze carried the scent of roses between them, mingling with laughter and the quiet pulse of something that might one day be love — if either of them dared to believe in it again.