Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(38)

“Yes. You?”

“Yes.” He frowns as though the answer is a surprise. He opens my door, wraps his arm around me and pulls me to his side. I expect the permanent tension that strains his muscles, but they are half-relaxed, like violin strings after a long concert.

We start strolling to one of the oldest public gardens in the United States. Ten thousand roses and counting. But that’s not the only reason why I come here. I stop under the enormous trellis at the entrance, the way I always do. Christmas lights and soft halogens light up the paths. The rest of the blooms are tucked in the darkness, their petals humming with critters. There is a whoosh of hilly wind, almost like a whisper. I lock my knees, bracing for the crater that ruptures in my chest when I come here. But tonight, it is contained. Not like it does not exist, but like the ember that glows at Aiden’s presence fills it with light, not void.

“You come here alone.” Aiden’s voice is low—a statement, not a question.

“Yes. I grew up with a rose garden. Not as grand as this one, of course. But it smelled the same.”

I take a deep breath, wondering if my lungs know the difference. Aiden breathes in the air, too, as his eyes assimilate the garden. There is something unique about the way he perceives things—as though he is consuming them with all his senses.

“So you come here when you miss home,” he states quietly.

“No. I don’t miss England. I come here when I miss them.”

“Your parents?”

I nod. “This is the only spot I’ve found here that suits them. Come. This way.” I take his hand and start on the mossy, cobblestoned path.

“The path to our cottage in England looks exactly like this except it’s barely two feet wide,” I say, having the odd sense that I am inviting Aiden not to my home, but to my origin.

His sentient eyes scan the path. Then he pulls me to his chest and caresses my lower lip with his thumb.

“Why do you come here alone? I’m sure it’s not because you can’t find the company.”

“We all need a place where we go alone. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, I think that’s true.”

“Do you have an Alone Place, Aiden?”

Walls rise up in his eyes and he stops caressing my lips. “Yes, I do.” His voice has a hard edge.

I wait for him to tell me where it is, but he doesn’t. I don’t push him even though I would give some of my remaining days to know. Things like this are only shared by choice.

“So you know the feeling, then.”

He nods. I reach on my tiptoes and kiss his lips lightly. “Come, let me show you the rest,” I say, following the mossy path.

“Do they have your favorite roses here?” he asks, as we enter the round Shakespeare Garden with its twinkling lights.

“No. Aeternum romantica grows only in East Africa. Portland’s soil would be too wet for it. In truth, I’ve only ever seen it in pictures. But I did see its purple cousin once when it was shipped to England for the Countess of Wessex. My dad was asked to extract the oil from the petals so that the Countess could use it.” I smile at the memory of Dad bouncing on his heels, much like Denton, when the royal summons arrived.

“You’re serious?” Aiden chuckles.

“Oh, yes. He was quite overcome. Before he was locked up to distill the geraniol oil, he managed to get security permission for me and my mum to see the roses.”

I pad along the perimeter of the Shakespeare Garden, stopping at the purple floribunda bush. I sense Aiden behind me like a shadow.

“The Purpura romantica looked similar to this one,” I say. “Except its blooms were smaller and it smelled like honey.” I caress the deep purple petals. Aiden’s fingers cover mine, feeling the petals too.

“Like your eyes,” he says.

I nod. “And my mum’s. And my grandma’s before then. I think it’s why Dad worked so hard to get permission for those roses. He exchanged his annual bonus for some blooms.” I swallow the wave of tears rising in my throat. It does not take the supernatural strength it usually does.

“My mum, Clare, was in seventh heaven. She was very fond of roses—something she inherited from her mother.”

I start leaving the floribunda, but Aiden wraps his arm around my waist and draws me to him. He bends his head, running his nose over my throat to my chin. Inhaling deeply. Then his warm lips press against mine. If I live a million years, I will not be able to describe Aiden’s kisses. This one is slow at first, soft like petals. His lips and tongue fight for dominance over my mouth until they combine forces and I surrender. My arms hang limply on his shoulders, all nostalgia forgotten. Was that his plan? He pulls away, smiling.

“You smell better than this rose,” he says. “Now carry on.”

“I like your smell test but the olfactory sense is fooled by sex hormones. So you see, your conclusions are unreliable.” I take his hand and follow the Shakespeare circle to the tall tea rose. His low throaty chuckle blends with the night. I tap his nose with one of the cyclamen buds. He smiles and sniffs.

“You still smell better.”

“You wouldn’t want my mum to hear that. She was born to aristocratic Lady Cecilia Juliana Sinclair. This rose—La France—was Cecilia’s favorite. Each Lady Sinclair has a signature rose, I’m told.”