His smile grows. Blossoms to its fullest. “Wowie,” he says. “I love your strong opinions on butter. And the things you can do with flowers. You’re an artist, Lucy. I love how you hold a knife, and I love watching you eat. I love the way you blush. Fuck, the way you blush. I love how you ask questions and really listen to the answers. I love every book you sent me, every package of seeds. Every look you’ve given me. Every touch. Every kiss. You could throw up in my truck a dozen times, and I wouldn’t mind.”
