As he climbed down from the treehouse, Jackson had a head full of Rose and her delirious-making kiss. The feel of her soft curves against his body lingered, making him burn. He wanted more, but he couldn't rush her. She was still bruised from the callous way he had treated her as a youth. He could tell.

He stopped at the bottom of the tree. The air was sticky and hot. The smell of sun-baked grass filled his nostrils. He bit his lip as he listened to the creek burble. Up inside the treehouse, it had seemed so simple. But now, reality was intruding. He'd come to Dogwood to avoid a marriage, but suddenly all he could think about was a long and happy life with Rose—the one woman in the world with whom he didn't dare play games. His heart rate kicked up a notch. This was dangerous.

Rose descended the ladder. Jackson lingered at the base of the tree just in case, but she made it to the ground safely, stepping off the last wooden rung and dusting off her hands as she slipped into her shoes. She smiled at him shyly, and he felt his face redden. Between the summer heat and the passion still lingering in Rose's eyes, he was on fire. He imagined kissing her senseless against the cottonwood tree, her hands on his back, her soft, plush lips under his. He cleared his throat and tried to suppress his desire to no avail.

"Jackson?"

"Yes, Rosie?"

She paused, mouth hanging open. "I don't know what I was going to say. I think I just like hearing you say my name. No one calls me Rosie but you."

He tamped down the moan of pleasure that wanted to escape his lips. If he could, he would say her name over and over, whisper it in her ear along with all the sweet words he could think of, just to make that deliriously beautiful blush in her cheeks deepen. She looked as though she'd just been thoroughly kissed. She was radiant.

Instead, he took a steadying breath and held out his hand. "What do you say we check on your dad?"

Rose took his hand. Her fingers entwined warmly with his.

***

Rose breathed deeply, trying to focus. Jackson had kindled something inside her with that kiss, a roaring fire, and it was still giving off distracting sparks. Even the touch of his hand grasping hers sent a delicious shiver down her spine. She was attuned to him, still—to the way his voice had gone low and gentle and almost raspy, to the brush of his thumb against the back of her hand. She reminded herself to be cautious. This thing between them, though it was a fire, had a tenuous grip on its coals; it could still go out without any warning.

As they walked together along the winding path of the creek, rocks crunched under their feet, and bits of wet grass clung to their shoes. Rose scanned the mountains which were white peaked even in June, and Jackson followed her gaze.

"I love this place," he murmured. "I always did. I never felt at home in Toronto. Not enough green space."

Rose studied him sidelong. Tendrils of hair fell around his face. She'd always adored the colour of it, like a copper penny. She wanted to reach out and tuck the wavy locks behind his ear, caress his face, feel the roughness along his jaw under her fingers.

She forced herself to look away. "I love it here, too. I left for a while to go to university in Vancouver." She shook her head. "It was four years of longing. I lived for the holidays and home."

Jackson cocked his head toward her. "What did you study?"

"Geography." She lifted her shoulders. "I liked thinking about the way people and places interact. Working for the town was always my goal. I wanted to make a difference."

"I remember. You had grand plans for Dogwood."

"I still do." Rose smiled. "Did you ever go to school?"

Jackson chuckled. "Sort of. When I showed up to class." He sighed. "My father was very clear on what he would pay for. Denny studied business. Dally has a law degree. I studied economics."

Rose furrowed her brow. "It doesn't sound like you were too excited about it."

He shrugged. "I wasn't. I had no interest in it. I took other classes whenever I could. I tried history and political science and other things, but I did the bare minimum in everything. It's a wonder I ever graduated."

"What would you rather do?"

He looked at her sharply. "What?"

"I mean, if you could do anything. What would you do?"

Jackson frowned. "That's just it. I'm not sure." He looked down. "I've been doing what other people want me to do for so long now, I don't think I know."

"You built a nice treehouse."

He laughed. "Only because you made me do it."

She joined him. It was impossible not to laugh along with Jackson and his infectious, full-body chuckles.

She bumped his shoulder with hers. "You loved building it, though. You don't remember? You used to get up there with boards and nails and work on it for hours. You were absorbed in it like nothing else. You'd forget to eat."

He bumped her shoulder back. "I can think other things that captured my attention more."

Rose blushed.

"That was later," she said softly.

He laughed again. "That was always. You just never noticed until..." He paused. "Until the end."

An ache lanced Rose's heart at his words. She'd reflected on their history often enough over the years. She knew her truth. Jackson had been too busy ruling the world and everyone around him as a boy to notice the way she'd hung on his every word. But now, she wondered if she were misremembering, if the lens of his leaving had darkened their past and coloured her interpretation of events. He kept subverting her expectations. Every time she thought she knew who he was, he surprised her.

Silence fell between them. They ambled down the rutted path toward the cottage hand in hand. As they neared it, Rose extricated her fingers from Jackson's and put her hand on his arm to stop him.

"This might be a little tense," she said, gesturing to the cottage.

He grinned. "Oh, I know it will."

"You're up for it?"

Jackson brushed his fingers against her face. "I am."

He cupped her face and brushed her lips with his. Her knees weakened, and prickles of heat rushed over her skin at his kiss. She was going to spend this summer permanently red in the face if this kept up.

The sound of a door opening interrupted them. Rose looked at the cottage. Dad stood in the doorway, leaning on a crutch.

She cleared her throat and tugged at the hem of her blouse. "Hi, Dad."

Dad looked at Jackson sternly. "Well, you may as well come in and cool down."

Rose's blush deepened. She looked at Jackson, at the spots of colour in his own cheeks.

"Thanks, Mr. Whitfield," said Jackson, voice grave.

Dad turned, grumbling, and disappeared inside the cottage. Rose suppressed a snort of laughter—Jackson's smile was much less self-assured than it had been only moments ago.

Jackson held out his hand to her. "I think you're right. This may be an uphill battle."

***

Inside the cottage, Mr. Whitfield led them into a small kitchen. Jackson tried not to stare, but the entire house was filled to the brim with evidence of Rose's life—and her sister's, he supposed, though he'd never spent much time with Lily. Pictures on the walls told a story of their progression as young artists, from finger-painted splashes of colour to roughly rendered pastel forests and blue skies, and even a detailed rendition of the Creek House in pencil which was framed beside the fridge. He peered closely at that one. It was signed Rose Whitfield.

"I didn't know you were an artist," he murmured.

She pulled him away. "I'm not. It was a long time ago."

She sounded embarrassed. He suppressed a laugh and let her lead him to a seat at the table. Mr. Whitfield hobbled around the kitchen on one crutch, taking down glasses out of the cupboard.

"Dad, let me do that," Rose admonished.

He huffed. "Nonsense. You're guests."

She rolled her eyes. "I used to live here."

Jackson felt a peculiar sharpness in his chest as they volleyed words back and forth, each attempting to take care of the other. It was a loving war of attrition with Rose wearing her father down, her voice firm but gentle, until he finally gave up and took a seat. The interaction was so sweet it pained Jackson, and he rubbed his chest to soothe the wistfulness that bloomed there. A lump of emotion formed in his throat.

"I can pour lemonade." Mr. Whitfield grunted as he lowered himself into the chair opposite Jackson, using his crutch to ease his way down. "Bless you, Rose, but I'm not an invalid."

"I know, Dad," she said as she bustled at the counter, "but the doctor said to rest."

"Ridiculous. I'm too old to stop moving. If I do, I'll stiffen up."

Rose set two frosty glasses on lemonade down on the table. "Then I'll oil you like the Tin Man. It won't hurt you to take it easy for a few weeks."

Mr. Whitfield raised his glass and sighed. As Rose returned to the counter for her own glass, Jackson forced himself to look away from her. He wanted to devour her curves, to linger over her every move and imprint it on his brain. His Rosie. But it wouldn't be polite to do so with her father in the room. Instead, Jackson twirled his glass with his thumbs and watched the liquid inside form a tiny helix.

"Mr. McBride."

Jackson looked up. Mr. Whitfield was observing him over the rim of his glass. Jackson smiled at him hopefully and took a sip of lemonade. As he swallowed, the taste made him exclaim in surprise. There was something floral and delicate beneath the lemony tang.

"This is delicious," he said as he lowered his glass. "What did you put in it?"

"Not arsenic, if you're worried. It's elderflower syrup. Rose and Lily loved it when they were girls."

Rose pulled an extra chair over to the table, then sat. "It's true. It's good. But I think we just liked the idea of drinking flowers."

"You come by it honestly," said Mr. Whitfield. "You were both my little buds."

Rose covered his knee with her palm. "We get it. You named us after plants."

Mr. Whitfield chuckled and patted her hand.

Jackson took a sip of lemonade to cover the emotion that threatened to show on his face. He couldn't remember his father ever expressing such adoration for him—nor even for Denny and Dally.

"So, Mr. McBride. How are things up at the house?"

Jackson clutched his glass. "They're good."

"And your brothers?"

"They're fine." Jackson swallowed. "They're enjoying the visit."

Mr. Whitfield nodded. "Lots to do in Dogwood if you look for it. You city boys ought to get out and take in the trails. I can't do it with my knees anymore, but there's an easy enough hike out at the eastern edge of the grounds. I can draw you a map. You used to enjoy roaming those hills, though I don't think your brothers were as enamoured with the great outdoors as you were."

Jackson hazarded a small laugh. "You have a good memory, Mr. Whitfield. Denny and Dally were more interested in the local girls than the fresh air."

"I recall. You spent more time around the grounds." A smile tugged at the man's mouth. "You were my summer shadow."

Jackson looked down as a tide of feeling crashed into his heart. He recognized the emotion. It was a wave of regret so strong it brought tears to his eyes. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed Mr. Whitfield. Perhaps Rose hadn't been the only one he'd left behind, that summer.

When he could speak, Jackson said quietly, "I remember those days fondly. You were very patient with my questions." He cleared his throat and looked at the man. "I learned a lot from you, Mr. Whitfield."

Rose's father set down his glass. He glanced at Rose, then back to Jackson. "Call me Bill."

Jackson nodded. His throat was too clogged to speak.

Rose clapped her hands together lightly. "Who wants cheese and crackers? I make a mean charcuterie."

Jackson smiled at her. "That sounds great, Rosie. I'll help."

There was a light in her eyes as she looked at him. He had a feeling she understood the significance of his interaction with her father even better than he did himself.

Jackson stood. "Bill, can I get you anything?"

"I'll have a top-up." Bill pushed his glass across the table. "Thank you...Jackson."