It was easy to imagine she was walking through hallowed ground—the ruins of some great cathedral from ages before memory. She smiled when she saw a moss-clad branch illuminated by a thin beam of sunshine and rubbed her hand across it so the glistening drops of water dripped from her fingers and caught the light as they fell to the ground.

When she had been out of her parents’ sight for several minutes, Laurel slipped her guitar to the front and untied the scarf. With a sigh of relief, she lifted her shirt a bit to let the flower petals spring free. After being tied down most of the day, they ached to be released. The petals stretched out slowly like sore, cramped muscles as Laurel continued down the thin, leaf-strewn path. She heard the distant gurgle of a large stream and picked her way through the vegetation in its direction, finding it in just a few minutes and plopping down on a rock at its edge. She kicked off her flip-flops and let her toes dangle into the chilly water.

She’d always loved this stream. The water was so clear in the still current that you could see to the bottom and watch fish flit back and forth. Where it splashed over rocks in small waterfalls, it churned into a perfect white foam that looked like thick, frothy soap bubbles. The whole scene belonged on a postcard.

Laurel began picking out chords from her favorite Sarah McLachlan song. She hummed along quietly as the scent from the flower enveloped her.

After the first verse, a rustle off to her left made her head jerk up. She listened carefully and thought she heard soft whispers. “Mom?” she called tentatively.

“Dad?”

She leaned the guitar against a tree and worked at the knot in the scarf where she’d tied it around her wrist. She’d better get the petals out of sight before her parents saw.

The long silk scarf refused to come loose from her wrist and she heard another rustle, louder than the first. Her eyes shot to the spot the sound had come from, just over her left shoulder. “Hello?”

Carefully, Laurel folded the soft petals down and wrapped them around her waist. She was about to secure them with the scarf when a figure stumbled out from behind a tree as though he had been pushed. He shot a nasty look at the tree for just a second before his face turned to Laurel. His agitation melted away and an unexpected warmth filled his eyes. “Hi,” he said with a smile.

Laurel gasped and tried to back away, but her heel caught on a root and she fell, letting go of the petals to catch herself.

It was too late to conceal anything; they sprang up in full view.

“No, don’t…! Oh, dear. I’m sorry. Can I help you?” the stranger said.

Laurel looked up into deep-green eyes almost too vibrant to be real. A young man’s face peered down at her as she lay splayed on the ground.

He extended his hand. “I really am sorry. We…I did make some noise. I thought you’d heard me.” He smiled sheepishly. “I guess I was wrong.” His face looked like a classic painting—cheekbones clearly defined under smooth, tanned skin that looked like it would fit in better on an L.A. beach than in a chilly, mosscovered forest. His hair was thick and black, matching the eyebrows and lashes framing his concerned eyes. It was rather long and damp—as though he hadn’t gone inside when it started raining—and somehow he’d managed to dye just the roots the same brilliant green as his eyes. He had a soft, gentle smile that made Laurel’s breath catch in her throat. It took her a few seconds to find her voice.

“Who are you?”

He paused and studied her with a strange, unflinching look in his eyes.

“Well?” Laurel prompted.

“You don’t know me, do you?” he asked.

She was slow to answer. She felt like she did know him. There was a memory there, at the edge of her mind, but the harder she reached for it, the faster it slipped away. “Should I?” Her voice was guarded.

The probing gaze disappeared as abruptly as it had come. The stranger laughed softly—almost sadly—and his voice bounced off the trees, sounding more like a bird than a human. “I’m Tamani,” he said, still holding a hand out to help her up. “You can call me Tam, if you like.”

Suddenly aware that she was still lying on the damp ground where she had fallen, Laurel felt embarrassment flood over her. She ignored his hand and pushed herself to her feet, forgetting to hold onto her petals. With a sharp gasp she yanked her shirt down, wincing as the bloom crushed against her skin.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll keep my distance from your blossom.” He grinned and she felt like she was missing some in-joke. “I know whose petals I’m allowed to get into and whose I’m not.” He inhaled deeply. “Mmmm. And fabulous as you smell, your petals are off-limits to me.” He raised an eyebrow.

“At least for now.”

He lifted a hand to her face and Laurel couldn’t move. He brushed some leaves out of her hair and glanced quickly up and down her frame. “You seem to be intact. No broken petals or stems.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, trying to conceal the petals peeking out from the bottom of her shirt.

“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

She glared at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“You don’t live here,” she said, confused. “This is my land.”

“Really?”

Now she was flustered all over again. “Well, it’s my parents’ land.” She held tight to the tail of her shirt. “And you’re…you’re not welcome here.” How had his eyes gotten so intensely, impossibly green? Contacts, she told herself firmly.