Later that afternoon, the heat had softened into something golden.
The kind of warmth that kissed your skin instead of scorching it.
Elena wandered back toward Bellamy's Table, curiosity leading her more than hunger this time.
She rounded the building, expecting a patio or delivery entrance—but what she found stopped her cold.
A garden.
No, a sanctuary.
Winding paths of thyme and rosemary, tall sunflowers turning their faces toward the light, trellises of ripe tomatoes heavy on the vine.
The air smelled like basil and wet earth, and in the center of it all—barefoot, shirt slightly unbuttoned, hands deep in the soil—was a man she hadn't met yet.
He didn't notice her at first.
He moved with a quiet intensity, fingers brushing over leaves like they were precious.
The veins in his forearms flexed as he clipped herbs and tucked them into a woven basket slung over one hip.
Elena cleared her throat softly.
He looked up.
And oh.
He wasn't classically handsome like Marco.
He was quieter.
Earthier.
Warm brown eyes.
A soft mouth that hadn't yet smiled.
His hair was pulled back in a low bun, a streak of dirt on one cheek.
"You're Elena," he said, voice like the garden itself—low, smooth, rooted.
"I feel like the entire town knows my name."
"Small town," he said, shrugging.
"Word travels."
She took a step closer, brushing her fingers along a flowering mint stem.
"You grow everything for the restaurant?"
"Almost. Marco's picky about freshness." His lips quirked. "I'm Theo."
"Nice to meet you, Theo." Her gaze flicked down to his hands—strong, skilled, stained with green.
"You've got... magic fingers."
That finally earned her a full smile.
Slow.
Intimate.
Like sunlight warming her from the inside.
"They do alright," he murmured, brushing dirt from his palms.
"Want to help?"
She hesitated, then nodded.
"What are we picking?"
"Touch," he said simply, handing her a sprig of soft sage.
"Everything here's about sensation. Scent. Texture. Taste. Just like the rest of Rosehill."
Elena walked beside him as he led her deeper into the garden.
At one point, their fingers touched reaching for the same stem.
Neither pulled away.
"This place," she said quietly, "feels like it wants something from me."
Theo knelt to snip lavender, glancing up at her.
"Not from you. It wants something for you."
That silenced her.
He stood, close now, holding the lavender just under her chin.
"Breathe in," he said.
She did.
Sweet.
Clean.
Calming.
But laced with something warmer, deeper—him.
For a second, neither of them moved.
The wind caught the edge of her shirt.
His eyes dropped, then rose again.
"I should get back," she said, throat dry.
Theo nodded, but didn't step away.
"You'll be back."
She didn't doubt it.