“They’re so pretty,” I said softly, letting the thought slip past my lips. “They’re weeds.” “Bloody Gods.” A shot of anger rang though me. “They’re still beautiful.” He was silent as we wound away from the flowers into a green swaying field. I wished I’d held my temper, though it was not my fault that the man was a maddening, close-minded snob. Finally, and to my surprise, he leaned in close. His cheek pressed to my hair. “You’re right.” He sounded apologetic. “They are.”
