“Oh, hello,” said a voice from behind her, and Laura turned to see—of course—Bob the whatever it was Polly called him. Impossibly handsome. Which he was, especially in the soft low sunshine of early evening.

“Hi,” said Laura, backing out of the flower quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry, I was, you know, smelling them.”

Bob frowned at her in puzzlement. “Uh, you’re allowed to smell the roses. I think there’s even a phrase about it.” He was taller than he’d seemed at a distance, and broader.

Laura wasn’t understanding him and could feel a blush creeping up her neck. Fantastic self-possession, Laura.

“Take time to stop and smell the roses?” Bob said, possibly wondering if he’d come upon a concussion victim. He could feel himself going pink, his usual shyness around other people—particularly women—starting to take over.

“Oh, right,” said Laura, giving up and going for a big smile. It usually worked.

After a slight pause, Bob smiled back and stepped past her, going closer to the roses. He touched a flower, pulled off a brown petal here and there. “They do smell great, but you can also smell night-blooming jasmine.” He turned and pointed at a nearby shrub. “I’m Bob, by the way.” He stuck out his hand, and Laura shook it.

“I’m Laura,” she replied. “I think we share a bathroom.”

He grinned, which was honestly a little painful because it made his nose crinkle. “I know, but so far you’re tidier than the last guy.”

“I stole two of your Advil,” said Laura. Tidier, but more larcenous.

“That’s OK,” he said, unable to come up with anything cleverer than that to say.

“I had a headache,” she added.

“That’s OK,” he said again, then shook his head. “I don’t mean OK that you had a headache, OK that you borrowed Advil.”

“Right,” said Laura. “Although I won’t be giving them back.” Stop talking, stop talking. “Because I swallowed them.”

Bob’s mouth dropped open a little as his brain struggled to come up with a response to that. After five seconds it came up with something: Change the subject.

“I have to pick roses for Maggie,” said Bob, pulling a pair of pruning shears from his pocket and waving them. He looked at Laura. “Which ones do you like?”

Laura looked around. “Which ones smell best?”

He pointed at a creamy yellow one. “That one’s nice, very lemony.” He walked over and snipped a long stem, then a couple more. He sniffed them, and Laura came over to smell them for herself.

She looked up from the flower and smiled a question. “Will lemons go with dinner?”