Page 64 of A Season for Scandal

“Ungrateful?” Oliver snapped, the familiar scowl dropping into place. “What nonsense, Bloom. You have worked incredibly hard to help your family business reach its full potential and now, when you have achieved that goal – no small feat, by the way – you want a new challenge, a bigger challenge. It’s not selfish; it’s calledambition.”

I reeled back, as though physically struck. “Ambition,” I repeated blankly. I felt the shape of the word settle over me, and it felt … right. A name to that gnawing feeling that I had tried to ignore for so long.

Perhaps realizing that I was feeling overwhelmed, Oliver changed the subject. “Do all these flowers have their own secret meaning too? I only know about the foxglove because of Mother.”

“They do.” I gathered myself and pointed at the anemone he had touched. “Anemones mean forsaken love. It comes from Greek mythology. After the jealous gods killed Adonis, Aphrodite wept and anemones sprung up from the ground.” I pointed to the apricot-coloured dahlia, with the perfect symmetry that had so appealed to Max’s sister. “Dahlias mean eternal love or commitment. I use them a lot in wedding flowers, or pair them with tulips for an engagement.”

“What do tulips mean?” Oliver asked.

“I declare my love for you,” I said unthinkingly, and the words hung heavy between us. I cleared my throat. “We always sell plenty of these in spring when love is in the air.”

“What about these ones?” Oliver pointed to a perfect pink camellia.

I swallowed a groan. “Camellia – they mean, um …longing for you.”

Oliver made a humming sound in the back of his throat. “Very romantic, the language of flowers.”

“Yes, I suppose,” I said, “though not always. There are plenty of plants that can be used to send a very different message. Marigold actually means grief, which my grandfather was up in arms about when he found out what my parents had named me, but Mother dug her heels in. She said that she thought marigolds were lovely, very cheerful flowers.” I smiled, ticking more examples off on my fingers. “Columbine means foolishness, tansy is hostility, petunia is anger or resentment.” I brushed the cloudy white head of a lacy hydrangea. “Hydrangea means boastfulness or heartlessness.”

“Not always so innocent as they seem, then,” Oliver said lightly, and I felt relieved that we’d navigated our way back to steadier waters.

“Not at all.” I grinned. “They’re not just messages either. For as long as there have been people, they’ve been using plants to heal or to do harm. There’s plenty in here that could do either.”

“Really?” Oliver looked intrigued.

“Mmm,” I said. “These frilly hydrangeas, for example, contain small amounts of cyanide.”

“Cyanide?” Oliver glanced at the flower in alarm.

I laughed. “Yes, very small amounts.” I nodded my head towards the window. “What’s growing out there is worse. The leaves on buttercups can cause terrible blisters, lobelia will make you vomit, hellebore will do that too, but much worse beside. There are records of a man dying within eight hours of drinking even one ounce of water in which the roots have been soaked. Deadly nightshade – well, that speaks for itself…”

“Stop, stop!” Oliver laughed. “Or I shall be too frightened to ever leave the house.”

I grinned at him. “I’m sorry, I’ve been doing a lot of research for the Finches. Winnie and I have been working on creating holistic remedies, as well as certain compounds that might … help with the work the Aviary does.”

Oliver shivered, leaning back once more against the table and eyeing me warily. “You might as well be a hydrangea yourself. Pretty as a picture and deadly as any weapon.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” I replied, trying to decide what my body was going to do when his words made me want to laugh delightedly and burst into tears at the same time.

Apparently, I was going to do neither of those things, however, because what I did instead was lean forward to press my lips to his cheek.

When I pulled back, Oliver’s eyes had darkened. He reached towards me, looping his finger through the waistband of my apron, tugging me closer to where he still leaned negligently back against the bench.

I was hypnotized by the heat in his gaze, my pulse drumming wildly as our faces inched closer and closer together. I could feel the warm touch of his breath coasting over my own lips, and my stomach leaped, even as my eyelids fluttered closed.

Oliver’s fingers reached up and brushed my cheek, the same movement he’d made yesterday, and this time I knew it wasn’t to rub away any smudge. This time it felt as though electric sparks flew beneath his fingertips.

“Bloom,” he breathed, the distance between us closing even further.

“Oliver?” a voice called, shattering the moment, and my eyes snapped open.

Oliver lurched to his feet as I staggered back, away from him. My hands were curled into fists to hide their trembling. I stared down at the floor, too overwhelmed to meet his eye.

“There you are!” Beth appeared in the doorway, her eyes darting between the two of us. “I – I hope I’m not interrupting?” I couldn’t be certain, but I thought there were traces of amusement in her voice.

“Of course you’re interrupting,” Oliver said with startling honesty. “What do you want?”

Beth was unmoved by his sour tone. “I wanted to let you know that your guests have arrived,” she said, smiling so that a dimple popped in her cheek. “But perhaps you’d rather just ignore them.”