Wildflower: A Slow-Burn Cottage Romance by Rose Everhart

A steamy, friends-to-lovers romance set in a cozy cottage garden. Rose invites her crush to dinner, but the dessert isn’t the only sweet thing on the menu…

— By Rose Everhart —

I’d cleaned the cottage three times.

The first time was practical—dusting the bookshelves, sweeping the kitchen floor, making sure Biscuit’s litter box wasn’t offensive. The second time was anxious energy I couldn’t quite contain, rearranging the throw pillows on my couch until they looked effortlessly casual instead of deliberately staged. The third time was just me being ridiculous, straightening the spice jars in my kitchen alphabetically even though Ethan would never see inside my cabinets.

Probably.

I caught my reflection in the window above the sink and realized I was biting my lip hard enough to hurt. My cottage looked beautiful—late afternoon sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains, the smell of rosemary and thyme drifting in from the garden where I’d been puttering all morning, everything soft and warm and inviting. Exactly how I wanted it. Exactly how I’d been picturing it for three months, ever since Ethan and I started dating and I’d been too nervous to invite him here.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Ethan: On my way. Need me to bring anything?

My heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did when I saw his name. I typed and deleted three different responses before settling on:

Me: Just you.

Too eager? Not eager enough? I groaned and set the phone down, pressing my palms flat against the cool countertop. This was ridiculous. I was twenty-six years old. I’d had sex before—plenty of times, with plenty of people. I knew what I was doing in bed, knew what I liked, knew how to make someone feel good. The sweet, innocent thing was mostly performance, a role I’d been playing so long I sometimes forgot where it ended and I began.

But with Ethan, I wanted it to be real.

I wanted him to see me—actually see me—and I had no idea if that was terrifying or thrilling or both.

The knock on my door came exactly twenty minutes later because Ethan was the kind of person who arrived exactly when he said he would, steady and reliable in a way that made me feel safe and made me want to test just how far I could push that steadiness before it broke.

I smoothed down my sundress—yellow, with tiny white flowers, the kind of dress that made me look soft and approachable and not at all like someone who’d spent the last three nights lying in bed touching herself while thinking about what might happen tonight—and opened the door.

He was holding flowers.

“Hi,” Ethan said, and his smile was warm and a little bit nervous, which made me feel better about my own nerves. “I, uh, I know you have a whole garden of these, but I saw them at the market this morning and thought of you.”

Wildflowers, a riot of color wrapped in brown paper. Not roses—he knew better than that, knew I’d spent my whole life having people give me roses because of my name and I was so tired of roses—but daisies and black-eyed Susans and something purple I’d have to look up later. The gesture was so thoughtful it made my chest ache.

“They’re perfect,” I said, and meant it. “Come in.”

He stepped inside and I watched him take in my space—the overstuffed couch with too many pillows, the bookshelves crammed with paperbacks and half-dead succulents I kept meaning to water more consistently, the fairy lights strung above the window seat where I wrote in the mornings. It felt vulnerable, letting him see this. Like I was letting him see me without the performance.

“It’s exactly what I pictured,” he said softly, turning back to me. “Warm. Bright. You.”

I felt heat bloom across my chest, that full-body blush I could never quite control. “I’ll put these in water. Make yourself comfortable.”

In the kitchen, I filled a mason jar with water and tried to steady my breathing. Through the doorway, I could see Ethan examining my bookshelf, his fingers trailing along the spines. He was tall—six-two, broad-shouldered from years of woodworking, with calloused hands that I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about. Tonight he was wearing jeans and a soft flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, and he looked comfortable and capable and I wanted him so badly I could barely stand it.

I’d been wanting him for weeks, maybe longer. Every time he’d walked me home from dates and kissed me goodnight on my porch—sweet, chaste kisses that left me aching for more. Every time he’d texted me good morning and asked about my day like he genuinely cared about the answer. Every time he’d touched the small of my back or tucked my hair behind my ear and looked at me like I was something precious.

He was patient. Kind. The kind of man who wouldn’t push, which meant I had to be brave enough to invite him in.

“Dinner should be ready in about twenty minutes,” I said, carrying the flowers into the living room. “I made pasta—nothing fancy, just something simple.”

“Smells amazing.” He was looking at me instead of the bookshelf now, his eyes dark and warm. “Can I help with anything?”

“You can keep me company,” I said, and then, because I was apparently incapable of not being awkward, added, “I mean, if you want. You don’t have to. You can sit, or—”

“Rose.” He crossed the room in three strides and took my hands, gentle but sure. “Breathe.”

I laughed, a little bit breathless. “I’m nervous.”

“I know.” His thumbs traced circles on the backs of my hands. “Me too.”

“You are?”

“Terrified,” he admitted. “I’ve been thinking about tonight for three weeks. Ever since you texted me asking if I wanted to come over for dinner, I’ve been trying not to get ahead of myself about what that might mean.”

My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. “What do you think it means?”

“I think,” he said carefully, his eyes searching mine, “it means you’re ready for me to stay longer than just a goodnight kiss. But if I’m reading that wrong—”

“You’re not.” The words came out in a rush. “You’re not reading it wrong. I want—” I had to stop, take a breath, force myself to be brave. “I want you to stay. I want you to stay tonight, and I want more than just kissing, and I’ve been wanting that for so long I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to figure out the right way to ask you.”

His smile was slow and devastating. “You just did.”

And then he was kissing me, finally, properly, not the careful goodnight kisses we’d been sharing but something deeper, hungrier. His hands came up to cup my face and I made a sound that was probably embarrassing but I didn’t care because he tasted like coffee and something sweet and I’d been waiting for this for so long.

When we broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against mine.

“Dinner,” I managed. “We should—it’ll burn—”

“Right. Dinner.” He didn’t move. “And then?”

“And then,” I said, feeling brave and terrified and desperately turned on all at once, “we’ll see what happens.”

Dinner was both easier and harder than I’d expected.

Easier because we fell into conversation the way we always did—talking about his latest commission (a dining table for a couple in Victorian Quarter), my struggle with a particular story arc, the documentary about bees he’d watched that had him convinced we needed to plant more wildflowers in the community garden. He was easy to talk to, always had been, and I loved the way he listened like every word I said mattered.

Harder because I couldn’t stop thinking about what came after.

Every time he looked at me, I felt it low in my belly. Every time his knee bumped mine under the table, I had to resist the urge to climb into his lap. By the time we’d finished eating and I was clearing plates, I was wound so tight I was shaking.

“Let me help,” Ethan said, standing.

“I’ve got it—”

“Rose.” He took the plates from my hands and set them on the counter, then turned me to face him. “You’re nervous again.”

“I’m not nervous,” I lied. “I’m just—”

“Wound up?” His hands settled on my hips, warm and steady. “Overthinking?”

“Maybe.”

“What are you overthinking?”

I bit my lip, trying to find words that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. “I want this to be good. I want you to—I don’t want to disappoint you.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Disappoint me? Rose, you could never—”

“You don’t know that.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “I know I seem—people think I’m all sweet and innocent, and sometimes I play that up because it’s easier, but I’m not really—I mean, I’m not inexperienced, I know what I’m doing, but what if I’m not what you—”

He kissed me quiet.

“Listen to me,” he said against my mouth. “I don’t have expectations. I don’t need you to be anything except exactly who you are. And whoever that is—sweet or not sweet, experienced or not—I want her. All of her. Okay?”

I nodded, feeling tears prick at my eyes because that was exactly what I needed to hear and hadn’t known how to ask for.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Good.” He smiled, then took my hand. “Now show me your garden. I’ve been dying to see it.”

The evening air was warm and golden, that perfect late-spring weather that made everything feel like a dream. My garden wasn’t much—a small plot behind the cottage where I grew herbs and vegetables and way too many flowers—but it was mine, and I’d been tending it with the same nervous energy I’d put into cleaning the house.

“It’s beautiful,” Ethan said, crouching down to examine the rosemary. “You’ve got a good mix here. Companion planting?”

“I read a book about it,” I admitted. “The tomatoes are supposed to help the basil grow better, and the marigolds keep pests away from everything.”

“Smart.” He stood, brushing dirt from his hands. “You’ve got good instincts.”

The way he said it—simple, genuine—made me blush again. I watched him move through my garden, touching leaves and asking questions about what I was growing, and felt something settle in my chest. This was what I wanted. Someone who was interested in the things I cared about, who didn’t rush, who made me feel like we had all the time in the world.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a small patch I’d been experimenting with.

“Lavender,” I said, moving to stand beside him. “I’m trying to grow enough to dry for sachets. It’s supposed to help with sleep.”

“Does it work?”

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t been sleeping that well lately.”

“No?” He was close now, close enough I could feel the warmth of him. “Why not?”

I looked up at him, heart pounding. “Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

The air between us shifted, went electric. His hand came up to cup my cheek and I leaned into it, unable to stop myself.

“What have you been thinking about?” he asked quietly.

“This,” I breathed. “You being here. What it would feel like to—”

I didn’t finish the sentence because he was kissing me again, deeper this time, and I melted into it. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing against him. I could feel how much he wanted me, could feel the evidence of it even through our clothes, and it made me bold.

“Inside,” I managed between kisses. “Let’s go inside.”

We barely made it through the door.

He pressed me against the wall of my living room, his mouth on my neck, and I heard myself make sounds I didn’t recognize—desperate little gasps that should have embarrassed me but didn’t because he groaned in response and pulled me tighter against him.

“Rose,” he breathed against my throat. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” I said, and my voice was shaking but I meant it. “I want you. Please.”

His hands slid down to my thighs, lifting me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist on pure instinct. He carried me to the couch—thank god it was only a few steps—and laid me down gently, covering my body with his.

“Is this okay?” he asked, even though he could probably feel how badly I was trembling with want.

“More than okay,” I said. “Please don’t stop. Don’t—”

He kissed me quiet again, and I felt his hand slide up my thigh, under my dress, his calloused palm warm against my skin. When his fingers brushed the edge of my underwear, I gasped against his mouth.

“Tell me if you want me to slow down,” he murmured.

“Don’t,” I begged. “Please don’t slow down, I’ve been wanting this for so long—”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and I stopped breathing, stopped thinking, just felt the first perfect pressure of him touching me where I’d been aching for him to touch me. I was already wet, embarrassingly wet, and I knew he could feel it.

“God, Rose,” he groaned. “You’re so—”

“Please,” I whimpered, and I could hear how desperate I sounded but I didn’t care. “Please, I need—”

He found my clit with his thumb and I cried out, my hips lifting off the couch. His other hand slid under my dress to cup my breast, and when he rolled my nipple between his fingers I shattered, just from that, from his hands on me and his mouth on my neck and the overwhelming relief of finally, finally being touched the way I’d been craving.

“That’s it,” he murmured against my ear. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

And I did. I let go completely, let myself feel everything, let myself be loud and messy and desperate because he was holding me through it, whispering praise against my skin—”so beautiful, you’re so beautiful, I want to make you feel good”—and I’d never felt more seen or more wanted in my entire life.

When I came back to myself, trembling and gasping, he was looking down at me with something like wonder in his eyes.

“We should,” I managed, my voice wrecked, “we should move to the bedroom.”

His smile was slow and wicked and full of promise.

“Lead the way.”