Being handed a rose felt like something from a storybook – and not one that Gretchen had ever particularly enjoyed – but the gesture took on a whole new meaning when it was being done by somebody who otherwise made your heart race, she quickly discovered. She felt a blush tinge her cheeks, which was most unlike her under any circumstance except those which involved the man in front of her, and she felt altogether warmer than she had five minutes ago.

How was that even possible? It had happened before, on the boat and at Christmas both came to mind, but she still didn’t entirely understand it. She felt strongly as though she wanted to, however.

“And you get more forward with your words,” she quipped back, twirling the rose between her fingers carefully, not wanting to lose a petal or prick her finger on the thorns. “Though I think it’s probably obvious by now that I like it when you are,” she admitted, glancing up at him through her eyelashes as she had practiced. In the mirror it had looked like a fair imitation of the debutantes she had seen do the same and it made her wonder what on earth girls learnt at her great aunt’s school that they couldn’t work out for themselves…

Perhaps it was the art of what to do next? Or the discipline to not find themselves in secluded rose gardens with handsome young men? Her eyes dropped to his lips, then to his hands as her tongue darted out to wet her own lips, suddenly dry as she thought about how much she wanted him to kiss her again.

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Bee is tremendous, isn't she?