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Caloroga Shark Media. Hello, and welcome to Romance Weekly. This
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is Hothouse, Episode two, propagation. It's been three days since
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the vine incident, and I've developed a strategy. The strategy
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is avoid Matt entirely. This is complicated by the fact
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that we're the only two people on a five acre property,
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and he keeps showing up places the kitchen, garden when
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I'm checking the tomatoes, the tool shared when I'm looking
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for a trowel, the cottage porch when I'm having my
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morning coffee, because apparently he thinks it's reasonable to bring
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me fresh scones from the bakery in town, like some
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kind of domestically competent Disney prints. You don't have to
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keep feeding me, I tell him. When he appears on
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day four with a basket of muffins Vera always forgot
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to eat when she was adjusting to the garden. He
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sets the basket on the porch railing. The empathy takes
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a lot of energy. You need to keep your blood
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sugar up. I'm fine, you had coffee for dinner last night.
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How do you know that the garden told me? I
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stare at him. The garden told you not in words.
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But when you're hungry, the plants near the cottage get
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agitated restless, he shrugs. I've learned to read the signs.
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This is deeply invasive. The garden is spying on me
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and reporting back to the hot gardener. I should be
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out aged. Instead, I grab a muffin because I am
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in fact starving, and the damn thing smells incredible. You're
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adapting faster than vera expected, Matt says, watching me eat.
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Most empaths take weeks to feel anything beyond a general awareness.
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You're already responding to individual plants. Lucky me. It's not luck,
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it's compatibility. The garden likes you, he pauses. It likes
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you a lot. I think about the vine that tripped me,
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the flowers that bloom when I think about him, the
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dream that told me to find him and let the
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garden bloom. The garden has weird taste. The garden knows
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what it wants. There's something in his voice, a warmth
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or a warning or both. I look up from my
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muffin and find him watching me with an expression I
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can't quite pass. Interest maybe, or concern, or something more
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complicated that I don't have the emotional bandwidth to analyze
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the roses. Climbing the cottage trellis unfurl three new blooms
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right there, right in front of both of us. Responding
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to whatever I'm feeling, Matt glances at the roses, glances
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back at me. I should get to work, he says,
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and leaves before I can think of a response. The
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problem with avoiding someone on a botanical garden is that
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the garden has opinions about your avoidance. I discover this
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when I try to take a walk through the woodland section,
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the calmest part of the property, the place where the
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plants are patient and quiet and not constantly trying to
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set me up with their caretaker. The path won't cooperate.
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I don't mean it's overgrown or difficult to navigate. I
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mean it literally won't let me go the direction I want.
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Every time I try to walk toward the woodland garden,
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I find myself turned around the path somehow, depositing me
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back at the entrance to the greenhouse. I try three times.
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Three times I end up at the greenhouse door. The
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fourth time I stop and address the garden directly. I
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know what you're doing. Silence, innocent botanical silence. I'm not
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going in there. He's in there. I can feel him
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in there. This is true. The empathy has expanded over
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the past few days, and now I can sense not
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just the plants, but the people who spend time with them.
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Matt leaves traces wherever he goes, a warmth in the soil,
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a vitality in the leaves he's touched. Right now, he's
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somewhere in the back of the greenhouse, probably doing something
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competent and attractive with his hands. The garden pulses with encouragement. No,
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the path shifts, not dramatically. I don't see it happen,
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but suddenly the woodland root is gone, entirely, replaced by
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a clear walkway leading directly to the greenhouse entrance. This
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is harassment. The jasmine by the door releases a wave
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of scent so intoxicating I actually sway on my feet. Fine, Fine,
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I push open the door. The greenhouse in late morning
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is almost too much. The light streams through the glass
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at angles that turn everything golden, and every plant is
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wide awake, photosynthesizing with what I can only describe as enthusiasm.
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I feel them, all the orchids preening, the ferns stretching,
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the vegetables working diligently in their beds, and underneath it
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all that constant hum of spring, the whole building vibrating
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with the need to grow and reproduce and continue the
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endless cycle of life. I take a breath, focus. I
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can handle this. Matt is in the back corner, working
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with a particularly dramatic orchid. He doesn't look up when
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I enter, which should be a relief, but somehow isn't.
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I start walking the aisles, checking on plants, like I
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know what I'm doing. The tomatoes are staking themselves somehow.
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I'm pretty sure they weren't doing that yesterday. The herbs
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are having a good day. The tropical section is humid
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and heavy with fragrance, and I find myself lingering there,
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letting the warmth sink into my skin. You should eat something,
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I jump. Matt has materialized beside me, which shouldn't be
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possible given how loud the gravel paths are. Except apparently
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plant people have silent walking abilities. You already brought me muffins.
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That was two hours ago. The empathy burns through energy fast,
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especially when you're resisting it. I'm not resisting anything. He
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raises an eyebrow. The orcid kids behind him lean toward
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me like they're eavesdropping the path to the woodland. Garden
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re rooted itself, I say flatly three times. The garden
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is literally forcing me to be here. The garden wants
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you to integrate. That's easier if you're near the center
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of its energy. The center of its energy is also
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where you are. I work here, convenient. Matt's mouth twitches, Daphne.
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The Garden is invested in your well being. If it's
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putting us in proximity, it's because it thinks that's good
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for you. The Garden thinks setting me up with the
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caretaker is good for me. The words come out more
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directly than I intended. We both freeze, the orchids lean
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even closer. Is that what you think is happening? His
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voice is careful, neutral, in a way that's clearly costing
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him effort. That's what Vera's notes said. The Garden wants
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the Laurel line to continue. It's been increasingly insistent since
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she told it she wasn't providing an air. I crossed
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my arms, defensive and annoyed and trying very hard not
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to think about what continuing the Laurel line would actually entail.
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I'm single, you're here. The garden is matchmaking. Matt is
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quiet for a long moment. The greenhouse hums around us,
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the plants practically vibrating with anticipation. You're not wrong, he says, finally.
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The garden has been suggestive since you arrived. Suggestive. The
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vine that tripped you wasn't an accident, neither was the
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path re routing. And that he stops, clears his throat
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the jasmine when we're near each other. You've noticed, I
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have noticed the jasmine releases its scent in concentrated bursts
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whenever Matt and I are within ten feet of each other,
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like a Victorian chapper wielding smelling salts in reverse. I've
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noticed the garden is making its preferences clear. He meets
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my eyes, and there's something raw there, something that makes
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my stomach flip. But that doesn't mean anything has to happen.
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You inherited this place. I work for you. If the
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Garden's interference is making you uncomfortable, I can that's not
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I stop start again. I'm not uncomfortable. I'm overwhelmed. There's
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a difference. What's overwhelming you? Everything, the empathy, the constant
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sensation of botanical desire, the way his hands look when
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he's working with the soil, the fact that I haven't
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felt anything in eight years, and now I'm feeling everything
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at once. I can feel what the plants feel, I say,
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and right now in May, what they feel is I
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can't finish the sentence, but the orchids finish it for me,
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suddenly blooming in a cascade that shouldn't be possible, flowers
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opening like they're sighing with relief. Matt looks at the orchids,
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looks at me. Ah, he says, yeah, that must be
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a lot. It is a lot. I laugh, and it
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sounds slightly hysterical. I spent eight years feeling nothing. Now
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I can feel every flower in a five acre garden
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experiencing its desperate spring urge to reproduce. And I'm supposed
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to have a normal, professional conversation with you while the
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jasmine is basically throwing pheromones at us. The jasmine as
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if on que releases another wave of scent. We both
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breathe it in and I watch his pupils dilate. Okay,
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he says, new plan. The new plan is the potting shed.
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It's the most neutral space on the property, Matt explains
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as he leads me across the greenhouse, mostly tools and supplies,
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the plants in their adormant bulbs, waiting for fall. You
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should be able to think straight. Why do I need
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to think straight? Because we need to talk about this,
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about what the empathy means, how to manage it, How
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to he opens the shed door, how to exist on
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this property without the garden driving you crazy. The shard
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is small, dim and blessedly quiet. He's right. The bulbs
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are sleeping, their energy low and patient, nothing like the
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urgent spring vitality outside. I take my first full breath
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since I walked into the greenhouse. Better, Matt asks better.
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He closes the door behind us, and suddenly we're in
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a very small space together. There's a work bench, shelves
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of supplies, barely enough room for two people to stand
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without touching. So, he says, the empathy. The empathy. Fira
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had it too, though not as strong as what you're experiencing.
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She said it was like having another sense, a way
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of knowing what the garden needed before it could tell her.
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It doesn't feel like knowing. It feels like drowning. That's
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because you're fighting it. He leans against the work bench,
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and even in the dim light, I can see the
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way his shirt pulls across his shoulders. You're trying to
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maintain distance, keep your emotions separate from the Garden's emotions.
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But that's not how it works. The empathy isn't something
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you have, it's something you are. That's very philosophic, it's practical.
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The more you resist, the more the Garden pushes back.
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That's why it keeps throwing us together. It can feel
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you trying to avoid the things you're feeling, and it's
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trying to break through the resistance the things I'm feeling, Yes,
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which are what exactly? It's a challenge, a dare. I
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want him to name it, to make it real, to
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take this amorphous, overwhelming sensation and turn it into something
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I can deal with. He holds my gaze. I think
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you know. I want to hear you say it. The
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shed seems smaller than it was a moment ago. The
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air seems thicker. Matt pushes off from the workbench, takes
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a step toward me, and we're suddenly close enough that
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I can feel the heat coming off his body. The
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garden thinks we should be together, he says quietly, and
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based on what the ad did when you admitted you
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could feel spring. I don't think the garden is wrong
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about what you want. What I want is irrelevant. I
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just got here. You work for me. This is completely inappropriate, complicated,
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terrible timing, all of the above. And yet he lifts
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a hand, not quite touching my face, hovering near my cheek,
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like he's asking permission. The jasmine blooms every time we're
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in the same room. The roses opened when I touched you.
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The garden knows something we're not admitting. I should step back.
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I should reassert professional boundaries. I should remember that I
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came here to sort out an inheritance, not to fall
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into bed with the gardener because some magical plants think
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it's a good idea. Instead, I close the distance between us.
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His hand cradles my cheek, his thumb traces my cheekbone,
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and the dormant bulbs in the potting shed, the ones
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that were supposed to be sleeping, start to pulse with energy,
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waking up like they're responding to something they've been waiting for. Daphne,
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Matt says, and his voice is rough. I know we
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should probably, I know I kiss him, or maybe he
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kisses me. It's hard to tell who moves first. We're
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just suddenly there, his mouth on mine, my hands fisting
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in his shirt, the entire potting shed thrumbing with energy
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as every bulb wakes up at once. He kisses like
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he does everything else, patient, thorough, absolutely devastating. His hands
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slide into my hair, tilting my head for a better angle.
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I press against him, feeling the heat of his body
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through our clothes, feeling the garden's approval radiating through the walls.
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The bulbs aren't just awake anymore. They're sprouting. I can
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feel it, hap happening, green shoots pushing up through the soil,
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responding to whatever we're generating. Matt pulls back, breathing hard.
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The bulbs. I know they're not supposed to. I know
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this is really inconvenient timing, because I'd very much like
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to keep kissing you. But if we don't stop, I
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think they're going to bloom. And these are full bulbs.
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They shouldn't bloom until I kiss him again, just to
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shut him up. The bulbs explode. Not literally, nothing dangerous happens,
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but every single bulb in the shed sends up shoots.
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The shoots become stalks, the stalks become flowers, and suddenly
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we're standing in the middle of an impossible garden, tulips
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and daffodils and crocuses blooming around us in a riot
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of spring that's six months ahead of schedule. We break apart,
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staring at the chaos we've created. That's new, Matt says, faintly.
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You said the shed was neutral. It was new before you,
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before we He runs a hand through his hair, dislodging
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a petal that's somehow landed there. The empathy responds to
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strong emotions. Apparently strong includes kissing. Kissing. Yes, we're both
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breathing hard. The flowers are still emerging slower now, but
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the energy in the room is undeniable. I can feel
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my pulse everywhere, can feel the garden's satisfaction pressing against
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my awareness, like a cat who's finally gotten the cream.
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Matt looks at me. There's a smudge of soil on
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his cheek and petals in his hair, and he's never
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been more attractive. We should probably talk about this, he says,
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probably figure out what it means, set some boundaries, be
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reasonable adults about the situation. All very sensible. I'm going
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to kiss you again instead. Oh thank god. We don't