But there was something in this gesture, this simple rose. Perhaps it was the realization that he’d gone to the garden with the express purpose of getting it for me. Or perhaps it was the blue ribbon, tied just so beneath the spreading petals. Blue again. He had to mean something by it. “No.” The word escaped me in a breathless rush. “No, I want it.” His eyes met mine, reflecting the vibrancy of the setting sun. He handed the rose to me and I took it. No thorns pricked my skin—he’d gone to the trouble of removing them all. “Thank you,” I said softly. He cleared his throat. “You are welcome.”
