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She took a sip. It was strong, but very smooth and with a hint of spice.
    “This is fabulous.”
    “Thank you. It’s my own special blend.” His voice was velvet.
    Morgan set down her cup. “I know this is hard for you.” Something flashed across his eyes and was gone. She rushed on. “I had no idea,” she explained. “Until a few days ago, I thought I was the biological daughter of Rebecca and Talbot Briscoe. I’m not here to take your inheritance,” she added.
    “It’s not really my inheritance,” he muttered and stood, taking their cups to the sink.
    “Let me show you around,” he said, not giving her time to question. “I live upstairs,” he nodded toward the stairs between them and the shop, but headed toward the back door. Meesha jumped up and followed, happy to join them. He held the door as both she and the dog moved past him. At her gasp, he smiled.
    “Oh—God,” she breathed. The late afternoon sun bathed the garden’s colors in soft light. A large tree filtered more strokes of light into shadows that caressed a cottage and gazebo nestled in the back. A backdrop of ivy and flowering vines covered most of the high brick fence encircling the property. A warm breeze whirled floral scents, combined with those of herbs, making Morgan close her eyes and inhale.
    He was watching her, as if he awaited her reaction. She didn’t disappoint him. A smile played across her lips. “It’s magnificent.” She could tell he was proud of the gardens, cottage, and gazebo. The lushness told her it had been a particularly good year for the gardens. He led her down a path of bricks laid haphazardly in dirt.
    “The gardens are arranged by type.” He pointed to the left. “Culinary and beverage. On the right medicinal and fragrance. Floral interspersed. The sides of the shop harbor more shade loving plants while the fence walls have vines or espaliers, depending on the light and, mostly, on the determination of the plant.”
    She walked slowly. Thyme. Marjoram. Sage. Fennel. She smelled peppermint, rose, lavender, and bay. Somewhere there was patchouli. She thought of Jenn. Wisteria worked its way up the gazebo. It was her dream garden. All around her. She stopped, squinted into the setting sun. “Is that a Neem tree?” She turned her full attention to Dorian.
    He nodded. A smile broke across his face. This time even his eyes smiled. “Yes. A beauty, isn’t it.”
    “I didn’t know they could grow here.”
    He shrugged. He took her elbow, “Let me show you the cottage.”
    The current ran lightly from him to her. She fought an urge to pull away—or move closer—not sure which she wanted more. “You are indeed self-sufficient here.” Her voice sounded breathy. She stepped away from his touch.
    “We’re a true herbal apothecary. However, we also offer soaps, perfumes, and gifts, among other things. Meesha, let’s show Morgan the cottage.” Meesha barked and bounded to the side porch of the Tudor-style cottage. The sunlight touched the leaded glass panes, sparkling like gems.
    He opened the door and held it as Morgan stepped inside. She thought she heard a hum, very faint, for just a second. She listened. She heard Meesha’s nails tapping on hardwood. He closed the half door, unlatched the top and left it open.
    “I’ve never seen one of those.”
    “A Dutch door? This will let some air in.”
    She walked over and let her fingers run over the leading between the panes of the front window, overlooking the garden. She could look across the gardens to the back of the shop, have tea in the morning and watch the birds. What was she thinking? She turned back to the interior of the room. A side window framed the gazebo. A stove, sink, and refrigerator snugged along the wall. On the opposite wall was a small fireplace. More stones and crystals adorned the windows and mantel. A comfortable sofa faced the fireplace. She took a step toward the open French doors in the back, saw the quilt-covered bed, turned