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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