Black Rose

enthusiastic thumbs-up.
    And when at game’s end, the Memphis Tigers clipped Ole Miss’s Rebels by three points, she decided the experience had nearly been worth one cashmere sweater.
    “You want to wait around, congratulate your boy?”
    “Not tonight. It’ll be better than an hour before he gets out of the locker room, and through the groupies. I’d like you to meet him sometime, though.”
    “I’d be glad to. He’s a pleasure to watch on the court, not just his style and skill—though he has plenty of both—but his enthusiasm. You can tell he loves the game.”
    “Has since he was a baby.” Mitch slipped an arm around Roz’s waist to help maneuver them both through the departing crowd.
    “It’ll be tough on you, him moving to Boston.”
    “He’s always wanted it. Part of me wants to move up there with him, but sooner or later, you’ve got to let go.”
    “Nearly killed me when my two youngest moved away. They were five years old yesterday.”
    He dropped his arm, then took her hand as they crossed the parking lot. “Can I interest you in a postgame meal?”
    “Not tonight. I need to get an early start in the morning. But thanks.”
    “Dinner tomorrow.”

    She slid a look up at him. “I should tell you getting me out of the house two nights running generally takes a team of wild horses. And I’ve got a garden club meeting tomorrow, which for personal reasons, I can’t miss.”
    “The night after.”
    “I sense a campaign.”
    “How’s it going?”
    “It’s not bad.” Not bad at all, she thought, enjoying the bracing air, and the warmth of his hand over hers. “I’ll tell you what, you can come to dinner night after next, but I’ll warn you, I’ll be cooking. David’s night off.”
    “You cook?”
    “Of course I cook. Not that I’m allowed to when David’s in the house, but it happens I’m a very good cook.”
    “What time’s dinner?”
    She laughed. “Let’s make it seven.”
    “I’ll be there.” When they reached his car, he walked her to her side, then turned her around, slid his arms around her, and drew her toward him. Laid his mouth on hers in a long, lazy kiss.
    She curled her hands around his arms, held on to them, to him, and let herself float on the sensation—the warmth of his body, the cool of the air, the simmering demand just under the lazy tone of the kiss.
    Then he eased back, his eyes on hers, and reached around to open her door. “I did that now because I figured if I waited until I walked you to your door, you’d be expecting it. I’m hoping to surprise you, at least now and again. I don’t think it’s the easiest thing to do.”
    “You’ve managed it a few times so far.”
    When she slid into the car, he closed the door. And thought he might have a few more surprises up his sleeve before they were done.

TEN

    HARPER COULD AND did spend hours a day in the grafting house without being bored or missing the company of others. The plants he worked with were an endless fascination and satisfaction to him. Whether he was creating another standard or experimenting with a hybrid, he was doing the work he loved.
    He enjoyed the outdoor work as well, the grafting and propagation he performed with the field stock. He’d already selected the trees he intended to graft and would need to spend part of the week collecting his scions, and pruning the maiden trees he’d grafted the year before.
    His mother left these sort of decisions up to him. The what, the how, the when. It was, he knew, a strong level of trust and confidence from her to step back and let him run that end of the show.
    Then again, she’d taught him not only the basics of the work, but had instilled in him a love for what grew.
    They’d spent countless hours together in the garden and greenhouse when he was growing up. She’d taught his brothers as well, but their interests had veered off where his had centered. In Harper House, in the gardens, in the work.
    His college years, his studies there, had only cemented for him what would be his life’s work.
    His responsibility to them—the house, the gardens, the work, and the woman who’d taught him—was absolute.
    He considered it a bonus round that love and obligation so neatly united for him.
    Tchaikovsky played for the plants, while through his headset his choice of classic was Barenaked Ladies. He checked his pots, making notations on his various clipboards.
    He was especially pleased with the dahlias he’d grafted the