The Silver Rose by Rowena May O'Sullivan

entrance hall, past the single bathroom and the three bedrooms, one of which, at the far end on the left, was now the studio. Such a tiny house for someone as dynamic as Aden. She somehow imagined he was more suited to a chateau or castle somewhere in Europe.
    Rosa looked for the telltale signs of the crates a courier had dropped off late that afternoon containing Aden’s work and equipment. She knew they were here and imagined they were in the studio but that door was closed.
    Patience, Rosa. Patience.
    Aden led the way past the coffee table, through another set of old-fashioned, glass-paned French-doors hooked back against the outside walls, and out onto a veranda almost wider than the entire house. A stand of trees on the right provided both privacy and shelter, and on the left, Beth’s home, Clematis Cottage, glowed with fairy lights strung amongst Pohutukawas. There was no fence between the two properties.
    A small cedar table placed between two chairs faced the embankment, enabling them to take full advantage of Raven’s Creek River several feet away. But it was dark, and she could only hear the soft sound of water as it flowed gently by.
    â€œAlready it feels like a home,” she admitted.
    Aden tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked on his feet as he breathed in the fresh air, a smile of satisfaction in his words. “I have Beth to thank for the little extras.”
    A honey-imbued candle glowed eerily at the table’s center. Combined with the soft radiance of a mauve and orange lava lamp on the coffee table in the lounge behind them, the atmosphere was, in Rosa’s opinion, extremely touchy-feely. Suppressing a shiver, she wondered what he thought he was doing. More importantly, what was
she
doing out here with him?
    But Aden broke into her thoughts. “Beth insisted on lending me a few essentials, and it ate into her preparation time. She made me promise to not come over too early, so we’ve plenty of time for a drink before we crank open the crates and head on over.” Aden indicated the wine on the table. “One of your favorites, I believe.”
    â€œFeijoa wine.” Her arm brushed against his when she moved to sit on the seat closest, and a zing of awareness rushed through her. “My absolute favorite. Although a Merlot is nearly as good.”
    A whisper of warmth from his breath caressed the back of her neck, and her skin tingled. Rosa was very aware he lingered behind her longer than necessary before moving round the table to sit down on the only other chair.
    â€œI know. Beth told me.” He picked up the wine and worked the cork from the bottle.
    Inexplicably breathless, Rosa ignored the mental and physical uncertainty his nearness engendered. He had taken the time to find out what she liked. Determined not to succumb to the lure of the flickering candlelight reflected in Aden’s inky eyes or the scent of his masculinity, she directed him toward the reason she was here. “I’m looking forward to seeing your work. How many pieces did you bring in the end?”
    â€œTwenty-five. Most of them small to medium-sized as originally agreed. Don’t worry,” he noted when Rosa checked her watch, “we have time for wine and the crates.” He reached over and filled her glass, his gaze unwavering. “I hope they live up to your expectation.”
    â€¢ • •
    Buoyed by the warmth of the wine, Rosa’s expectations were high as Aden cranked the first crate open, lifted the lid, and leaned it against the leg of a chair. He stepped aside and smiled encouragement when she hesitated. “Go on. Feel free.”
    Rosa stepped forward and brushed at the small, sticky, polystyrene balls buffering the contents against harm and her hand disappeared, delving into the whiteness until she felt the first item. Gently she pulled it out. It was wrapped in clear bubble wrap and unrolled it to reveal a bolt of rich purple velvet, which