May 24, 2026

Hothouse - A Paranormal Romance (Episode 3 of 4) "Cross-Pollination"

Hothouse - A Paranormal Romance (Episode 3 of 4) "Cross-Pollination"

The May Day festival is ten days away, and Daphne is trying to focus on logistics. The garden is not cooperating. Every thought about Matt makes something bloom. Every touch makes something fruit. The orchids have started arranging themselves in suggestive patterns.When she finally confronts him in the orchid house, she admits the truth: she's scared of wanting something this much. He kisses her like the world is ending, and the orchids stage their greatest performance yet.Then her phone buzzes. Festival crisis. Maypole emergency. And she runs.Three days of professional distance later, she finds him in the rose garden at sunset and stops running. When she tells him she wants this—really wants it, no spreadsheets—the entire garden lights up.Literally. Bioluminescence. The roses are glowing.Six days until the festival. And the garden has never been happier.

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WEBVTT

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Caloroga Shark Media. Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This

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is Hot House Episode three, cross Pollination. The problem with

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dating someone on a magical property is that privacy doesn't exist.

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It's been a week since the potting shed incident. Yes,

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I'm calling it an incident because the time we kissed

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so thoroughly that full bulbs bloomed in spring. Is too

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many words, and I have learned several things. One, the

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garden is delighted. Every time Matt and I are in

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the same room, something flowers. Every time we touch something fruits.

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Yesterday we held hands while walking through the vegetable garden,

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and three tomato plants ripened on the spot. We now

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have more tomatoes than any two people could reasonably eat.

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Two the empathy is getting stronger. I can feel the

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entire property now, not just the plants I'm standing near.

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I wake up knowing whether the roses had a good night.

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I sense the greenhouse's mood before I walk through the door.

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And I can always always tell where Matt is because

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the plants light up when he touches them, and that

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light is visible to me like a beacon. Three. Keeping

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things professional is completely impossible when every flower on the

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property is rooting for you to make out. We should

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focus on the festival. I tell Matt over breakfast. It's

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in two weeks. There's a lot to do. Absolutely, He's

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across the table from me, eating eggs and looking unfairly

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attractive in the morning light. Very important, critical, Even so,

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we should probably not get distracted. Definitely not. The roses

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on the kitchen windowsill bloom three new flowers. We both

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pretend not to notice. I'll work on the vendor list.

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I say, you handle the grounds prep. We'll meet at

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lunch to compare notes. Very professional, that's the goal. I

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stand up to clear my plate, and he catches my

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hand as I pass. Just that a touch, brief and warm,

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and the herbs in the window box go absolutely wild,

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sending up flowers they're not supposed to have, filling the

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kitchen with the scent of basil and rosemary and thyme. Lunch.

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He says, his thumb tracing my palm lunch, which I agree,

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and I don't recognize my own voice. I escape to

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the office before anything else can bloom. The festival has

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been a Laurel Gardens tradition for forty seven years. Vera's

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notes are comprehensive, vendor layouts, timing schedules, the specific order

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of events that apparently cannot be changed because missus Patterson

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from the Historical Society will have opinions. There's a maypole,

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there's a plant sale. There's a competition for best home

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garden that's been won by the same family for seven

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years running and is apparently quite contentious. I throw myself

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into the planning with the fervor of someone trying very

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hard not to think about the way Matt's hands felt

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on her face yes day, or the way he kissed

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the inside of her wrist before letting go, or the

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way the entire rose garden burst into bloom when she

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thought about it later. The empathy makes focus difficult every

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time my mind wanders to Matt, which is constantly because

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I am apparently a teenager. Now, the plants around me respond.

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I'm in the office, which has minimal greenery, and still

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the single potted fern on the desk keeps unfurling new

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fronds at a rate that should be biologically impossible. By noon,

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the fern has doubled in size. You're projecting, I tell it.

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The fern doesn't respond because it's a fern, but I

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swear it looks smug. Matt finds me in the greenhouse

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at lunch, surrounded by vendor contracts and the organizational chaos

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of someone who used to be an accountant and is

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now desperately trying to apply those skills to a flower festival.

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How's it going, missus Patterson has called three times about

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the bunting colors. Apparently last year's bunting was aggressively modern,

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and she has concerns. Vera used to let her handle

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the bunting herself. Saved everyone a lot of grief. Why

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didn't you tell me that an hour ago you said

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you wanted to handle things professionally, He sits down across

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from me. Stealing half my sandwich without asking. Professional handling

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means learning, the missus Patterson, lesson the hard way. You're

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enjoying this a little bit, he grins, and the orchids

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behind me, the ones I've been trying to ignore all morning,

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release a wave of scent that makes my toes curl.

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The garden's enjoying it too. It hasn't had this much

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entertainment since Vera tried to host a yoga retreat in

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the rose garden. What happened with the yoga retreat? The

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roses kept blooming during savasana, very distract Forty middle aged

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women covered in petals, complaining about allergies. He steals another

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bite of sandwich. Vera decided the garden wasn't suited for

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group activities. I think about what group activities the garden

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might approve of. Then I stop thinking about it because

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the orchids are already responding, their blooms growing more elaborate,

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their scent intensifying. Stop that, I mutter at them. They

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can't help it. The orchids are particularly sensitive to Matt

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pauses choosing his words romantic energy. Romantic energy. The orchid

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house is where Vera's grandmother got engaged, and her mother

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and Vera herself, though that didn't work out. He's watching me, carefully,

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gauging my reaction. The orchids have developed certain expectations. The

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orchids have expectations about my love life. The orchids expectations

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about every Laurel woman's love life. They're very invested. I

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look at the orchids. The orchids look back in so

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far as flowers can look. They're showing off now. Petals

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arranged in configurations that seem almost deliberately suggestive, colours deepening

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like they're blushing. This is insane. I say, welcome to

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Laurel Gardens. The next three days are an exercise in

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botanical torture. I cannot think about Matt without the garden responding.

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I cannot be near Matt without the garden going into overdrive.

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And I cannot get through a single festival planning session

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without something flowering, fruiting, or otherwise announcing my emotional state

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to anyone within visual range. The worst part is that

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Matt knows he can see exactly what I'm feeling written

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in petals and pollen, broadcast by every plant on the property,

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and he's being so goddamn patient about it, giving me space,

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not pushing, letting me set the pace that I kind

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of want to scream. You could just kiss me again,

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I tell the mirror. On day four that would solve

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a lot of problems. The jasmine outside the bathroom window

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blooms so aggressively that I have to close it. I

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find him in the orchid house that afternoon. He's repotting

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something delicate, his hands steady and careful, and I stand

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in the doorway for a full minute, just watching. The

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orchids are aware of me. I can feel them turning

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their attention in my direction, anticipating something, but I try

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to keep my emotions contained, neutral, professional. The orchids are

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not fooled. You're hovering, Matt says, without turning around. I'm observing.

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There's a difference. The orchids say. You're hovering. The orchids

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are gossips. He sets down the plant he's working with

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and turns to face me. The afternoon light is doing

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something unfair to his cheekbones, and the orchids respond to

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my noticing by releasing a coordinated wave of fragrance. You've

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been avoiding me, he says. I've been busy festival planning.

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You've been avoiding me, he repeats, since the potting shed.

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You kiss me like the world's ending, and then you

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spend three days talking to me only about vendor contracts.

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The vendor contracts are important, Daphne, he says, my name

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like it's its own sentence. I feel it everywhere, in

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my chest, in my stomach, in the sudden riot of color,

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as the orchids decide this is their moment. I don't

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know how to do this. I admit. The festival is

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in ten days. There's so much to organize, and every

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time I let myself think about you, about us, the

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entire garden starts performing. I can't focus when I'm rounded

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by flowers that are basically doing a romantic comedy soundtrack.

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Then stop trying to focus. What. He walks toward me,

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slow and deliberate. The orchids are going insane, new blooms

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opening with every step he takes, the air thick with

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their approval. You're fighting the empathy. You're fighting the garden.

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You're fighting what you feel. He stops in front of me,

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close enough that I can feel the heat of him.

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What if you stopped fighting, then I'd be completely useless

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for the next ten days. Or you'd be present, integrated,

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actually enjoying what you're feeling instead of treating it like

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a problem to manage. Easy for you to say, you're

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not the one broadcasting your emotions in botanical surround sound. No,

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I'm just the one who can read the broadcast. He

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reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

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The touch is gentle, almost innocent, and the orchid nearest

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to us opens a bloom so elaborate it looks like

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a love letter. You want me, You've wanted me since

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you got here. The only person who doesn't know that

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is you. I know it. The problem is that everyone

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else knows it too. Is that a problem? I think

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about it, really think for the first time since this started.

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The garden knows what I feel. Matt knows what I feel,

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the orchids, the roses, the jasmine, probably the ferns. Everyone

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is aware of my desire, my attraction, the springtide, wanting

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that's been building since I walk through the greenhouse door,

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and nothing bad has happened. The garden didn't judge me,

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Matt didn't take advantage. No one laughed or withdrew or

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made me feel like wanting was wrong. They all just

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waited patiently for me to catch up with what they

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already knew. I'm scared, I say, and the admission costs

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me something not of you, not of the garden, of

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wanting something this much. I haven't wanted anything in years.

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I forgot how it feels. How does it feel terrifying? Overwhelming?

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I meet his eyes, incredible, Then stop fighting it, He

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kisses me. This isn't like the potting shed, frantic, surprised

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a collision. This is deliberate. He cups my face in

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his hands, tilts my head, takes his time. The kiss

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is thorough and patient and absolutely devastating, and the orchids

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respond by going completely gloriously insane. Blooms open everywhere, New

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colors emerge that I've never seen, petals arranging themselves into

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patterns that would make a botanist weep. The entire orchid

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house becomes a cathedral of flowers, light filtering through improbable blooms,

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the air so thick with fragrance I can taste it.

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Matt backs me against the potting table, and I let him.

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His mouth moves to my jaw, my neck, the spot

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behind my ear that makes my breath catch. The orchids

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are practically singing, now, a visual area of approval, and

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I stop caring about what they're broadcasting because I'm too

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busy feeling it. Matt, hmm. The festival can wait, but

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missus Patterson definitely can wait. His hand slide to my waist,

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pulling me closer, and I'm about to abandon every professional

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instinct I've ever had. When my phone buzzers, we both

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free don't, Matt says, against my neck, whatever it is,

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it can wait. The phone buzzes again and again and again,

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the urgent pattern of someone who is not going to

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stop until I answer. It's probably missus Patterson. I groan,

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then definitely don't answer it. But I'm already reaching for

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my phone, because eight years of corporate conditioning doesn't disappear

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just because a gorgeous man is kissing my neck in

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a greenhouse full of approving flowers. The text is from

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Sarah chen Vera's former assistant, who I've been coordinating with

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on festival logistics. Emergency maypole vendor canceled. Back up also canceled.

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No maypole equals no festival. Call me now, no, I

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whisper what the may pole is? Canceled both the vendor

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and the backup, already dialing Sarah's number even as Matt's

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hands are still on my waist. This is a disaster.

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Missus Patterson specifically said the maypole is non negotiable, Daphne,

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I have to fix this. I step away from him,

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phone to my ear, watching his face do something complicated.

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The orchids are wilting slightly, their triumphant display fading as

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my attention shifts from desire to crisis management, Daphne. His

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voice is gentle, but there's an edge to it. The

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maypole can wait five minutes, It really can't. The festival

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is in ten days. If we don't have a maypole

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source by tomorrow, there's no time for alternatives. Sarah picks up,

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and I'm immediately plunged into logistics vendor options, back up plans,

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missus Patterson's inevitable reaction. Matt watches me for a moment,

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then turns back to his orchids with an expression I can't.

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By the time I hang up, he's on the other

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side of the greenhouse, focused on his work, like I'm

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not even here. Matt, go handle the maypole. His voice

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is neutral, careful. The festival is important. I'm sorry. I know.

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The timing is. The timing is what it is. He

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still isn't looking at me. We've got ten days, plenty

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of time after the festival to figure things out. Something

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cold settles in my stomach. The orchids have gone quiet,

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their blooms closing slightly, and I can feel the garden's confusion,

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the same confusion I'm feeling. Are you upset I'm not upset.

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I'm being professional. He finally looks at me, and his

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expression is the same neutral mask he wore the first

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day I arrived. That's what you wanted, right, professional. I

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open my mouth to respond, to explain, to say something

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that bridges the gap that's suddenly opened between us, but

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my phone buzzes again, Sarah with another crisis, and by

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the time I look up, Matt is walking away. The

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Orchid House feels empty without him, and for the first

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time since I arrived, the garden feels quiet. I spend

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the next three days fixing the Maypole crisis and trying

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to figure out what went wrong. The professional answer, nothing,

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Matt and I are both adults. We got caught up

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in a moment. The moment was interrupted, and now we're

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refocusing on what matters, the festival that's nine days away,

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then eight, then seven. The honest answer, I panicked not

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about the Maypole, about what was happening in the Orchid House,

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about how much I wanted it, how completely I was

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willing to abandon every other priority, how the rest of

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the world had ceased to exist the moment his mouth

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touched my skin, I've never wanted anything that much, and

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when Sarah's text interrupted, some part of me was relieved,

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because wanting that much is terrifying, and crisis management is familiar,

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and I know how to solve problems, but I don't

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know how to surrender to something I can't control. So

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I chose the problem, and Matt saw me choose it.

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The garden knows something is wrong. The flowers are still blooming,

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but the energy has changed more muted, more cautious. The

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jasmine has stopped releasing its scent when Matt and I

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are in the same room. The roses have pulled their

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petals in slightly, watching and waiting. Even the orchids acquired.

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I throw myself into festival prep with a determination that

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borders on mannik. The may Pole situation gets resolved a

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local craftsman who owes the Laurel family of favor plus

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some creative logistics, and I move on to the next crisis.

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Parking arrangements, volunteer schedules, the elaborate diagram of vender Booth's

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that Missus Patterson has already rejected twice. Matt is polite, professional,

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exactly what I asked for. I hate it. On day

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six before the festival I find him in the rose

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garden at sunset. He's pruning something. His movement's methodical, and

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he doesn't look up when I approach. We need to talk,

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I say about the festival. I think we're on track,

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not about the festival. He sets down his pruning shears straightens.

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When he finally meets my eyes. His expression is guarded

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in a way it hasn't been since our first day. Okay,

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he says, talk. I panicked in the orchard house when

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Sarah called. I forced myself to hold his gaze. You

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were right. I was fighting what I felt, and when

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the crisis gave me an excuse to run, I took

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it because the festival is important, Because I was scared.

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The words come out harder than I intended, not of you,

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of me, of how much I wanted to stay in

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that moment and forget everything else existed. I've spent eight

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years not wanting things, Matt, eight years of optimizing my

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life until there was nothing left to feel. And then

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I came here, and suddenly I'm feeling everything, and you're

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at the center of it, and you don't know how

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to want something without trying to control it. His voice

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has softened slightly. The empathy doesn't work that way. Neither

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does this I know, do you? He takes a step closer.

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The roses around us lift their heads, petals opening slightly.

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Because from where I'm standing, you're still treating this like

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a problem to solve, optimizing, managing, trying to fit what

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we have into a spreadsheet. I don't have a spreadsheet

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for this. Then maybe stop looking for one another step.

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The roses are fully open now, they're scent building. I've

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been patient because I know this is new for you,

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the empathy, the garden, all of it. But I can't

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keep doing this. If you're going to run every time

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things get intense, I'm not going to run. You ran

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three days ago. I made a mistake three days ago.

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That's different. He's close enough to touch now, close enough

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that I can see the tension in his jaw, the

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careful control he's maintaining. The roses are trembling with anticipation,

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petals open so wide they're practically begging. The festival is

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in six days, he says. We can table this until after.

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If that's what you need, get through the event, then

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figure out where we stand. I don't want to table it.

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Then what do you want. I think about the Orchid House,

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the way I felt when he kissed me, alive, present,

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completely surrendered, The way the fear crept in after telling

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me it was too much, too fast, too intense. The

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fear is still there, but so is something else. I

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want to stop running, I say. I want to let

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the garden do whatever it's going to do. I want

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to stop treating what I feel like a problem to

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be managed and us. I want us. The words come

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out clear and certain, not after the festival, now, even

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though it's complicated and intense and I don't have a

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spreadsheet for it. The roses exhale. That's the only way

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to describe it, a collective sigh, petals opening fully, fragrance

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releasing in waves that wash over both of us. The

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entire rose garden responds to my words, blooming like it's

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been waiting for this moment. Matt looks at the roses,

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looks at me. The garden believes you, He says, do you.

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He closes the distance between us and answers with a

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kiss that makes the Orchid House feel like a warm up.

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This is the full orchestra, the garden pulling out all

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the stops, every flower within one hundred yards, joining the celebration.

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I wrap my arms around his neck and stop fighting entirely,

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the empathy, the wanting, the overwhelming a liveness of it all.

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When we finally break apart, the sun has set and

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we're standing in a garden that's glowing, not metaphorically, actually

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glowing some kind of bioluminescence I've never seen before, soft

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light emanating from petals and leaves, turning the Rose Garden

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into something from a fairy tale. The garden is showing off,

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Matt says, but he's smiling. Let it. I pull him

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back down. We've got six days until the festival, plenty

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of time. The rose is light up even brighter, and

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for the first time since I arrived, the garden feels perfectly,

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completely satisfied,