“IT’S . . . BEYOND WORDS,” Aimee breathed, still mesmerized by the view. “When I suggested having dessert by the ocean, I never imagined this.” Her gaze swept from the sunset-pink clouds and azure water to the graceful branches and blooms beyond the driftwood gazebo high on a cliff above the sea. “Your grandmother’s garden is . . .” Aimee shook her head and smiled. “Completely the way I’d expect it to be. It’s amazing because Rosalynn Marchal is an amazing woman.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“I love it.”

Aimee’s heart skittered as Lucas’s blue eyes met hers over the small shell-embellished table. Strings of dainty bulbs cast specks of dancing light over his crisp white oxford shirt. A collection of wind chimes tinkled on the breeze, mixing with the faint strains of classical music coming from Rosalynn’s tiny alfresco art studio. There wasn’t a more perfect setting for a birthday, a more wonderful way to celebrate it. Aimee smiled as Lucas raised his fork to his lips, savored another mouthful of her strawberry rhubarb crumble with something akin to a deep, blissful moan.

“I’ve changed your childhood memory of rhubarb?” she teased.

“Beyond that —I’ve forgotten the geese.”

She laughed, still touched that he’d done that for her. Driven so far, walked up that dark path. So like his grandfather, climbing the French mountain to pick —

“The strawberries make it perfect,” Lucas told her. “Sweet with the sour. And all this crumbly oatmeal topping . . . It’s your mother’s original recipe?”

“Right down to the creamery butter. The only adaptation is . . . me, what I want to do with all she’s taught me. She didn’t coach me to be a ‘culinary star.’ I didn’t see that until last night. Now I know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You’re going to talk with your supervisor tomorrow?”

Aimee nodded. Lucas was referring to what she’d told him earlier: she wanted to become a registered dietitian. She planned to ask her department head about the required course of study for that profession. And also about the Hope medical system’s educational scholarship program. For some reason, she felt like it would all come together this time.

“I’m excited,” Aimee told him, feeling goose bumps rise. “I know this is what my mother would have wanted. My chance to make a real difference in people’s lives.”

“You’re already doing that. With my grandmother. She said she’d take her paintbrushes to OT this week. And —” he shook his head —“you’ve made a difference with Wanda Clay. I wouldn’t have taken bets on that. But she was grinning like a kid at Disneyland today.”

“I know.” Aimee smiled, remembering it. “She can hardly wait until Potter is officially a certified therapy dog. She’s already talking about visits to the other Hope hospitals. I think Potter’s going to remind Wanda why she was called to nursing in the first place —to help people.”

“Another thing God had a hand in?” Lucas asked, reminding Aimee of her words back when they were first getting to know each other.

“I’d say so.” She nodded. “Absolutely.”

Lucas reached across the table, traced his finger across the back of Aimee’s hand. “And then there’s Margie. Now that woman has a plan.”

Aimee’s face warmed. “Yes, she does.”

“She’d be happy to know I’m having dessert with her favorite princess.”

Aimee wrinkled her nose. “Probably best not to tell her. Besides, you promised: no valentines, no birthday fuss. I won’t lay that double whammy on anyone.”

Lucas was quiet for a moment, holding Aimee’s gaze. The brief silence was filled with the distant sound of ocean waves and the tinkling wind chimes. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons floated from the windows of Rosalynn’s studio.

“I do have something for your birthday,” Lucas said finally. A smile quirked his lips. “I promise it has nothing to do with hearts and cupids. It’s something small, but a big part of the reason I brought you here.”

“Now I’m intrigued.” Aimee was glad he’d kept hold of her hand. Just that small touch was a valentine all in itself. “What is this gift?”

“You’ll have to walk with me.” Lucas stood and reached out to take her hand again. “Over there. We’ll be able to see the sunset better too.”

He was right. They stopped near a little bench just beyond the studio, in a section of the garden that was a Monet canvas of spring flowers: irises, tulips, daffodils, and snow-white dogwood. They looked out over the sea, gone rosy-gold and purple as it yielded to the sunset. Aimee’s heart sank as Lucas let go of her hand. Right now, his touch, his kind heart, were the only gifts she needed.

“What are you doing?” she asked, squinting as he plucked at a chest-high shrub a few feet away.

“Getting your gift,” he told her. “Which apparently requires a pocketknife. Unlike rhubarb. Hang on.”

“Okay.” Aimee smiled, perplexed, until the sweet and so-familiar scent wafted on the ocean breeze. It took her back to every birthday she could remember. “Lucas, is that —?”

“Daphne. Your birthday flower.” He stood in front of her, holding the sprig like the fragile, heaven-sent beauty it was. “I had no clue it was growing here. But you told my grandmother. And she told me.”

“Oh, Lucas. This is . . .” Aimee’s voice cracked. “Nothing could be better.”

“Good. Hold still.” He reached out, tucked the daphne behind Aimee’s ear. Then traced his fingers very gently along her jaw. “It’s a pretty flower. But you are far more beautiful. And you’ve made a difference in my life too. I hope that continues —I want it to. Happy birthday, Aimee.”

Lucas took her face in his hands —carefully, as if she were the flower now —bent down, and touched his lips to her cheek. Then leaned back a little to study her face. Waiting, Aimee suspected, for her permission. She smiled, thinking it might scare him to death if she cheered him on Margie-style. She leaned a little closer, lifted her face, half closed her eyes.

Lucas’s hands slid toward the back of Aimee’s head, his fingers buried in her hair. He drew her into the kiss. Lips warm, gentle, a little tentative at first . . . then, when she responded, far more thorough, claiming her mouth fully. Aimee slipped her arms around Lucas, kissing him back. She wasn’t sure if the humming in her ears was her heart or the Pacific Ocean.

“Well . . .” Aimee took a breath and tried to calm her racing heart —to no avail. She tilted her head, drinking in Lucas’s beautiful blue eyes. And thought of another couple long ago. “So,” she teased, kissing the corner of his mouth, “do I taste like fraises des bois?”

Lucas laughed, shifting his strong arms to hike her closer against him. “Maybe. But I’m the analytical type. I think I’ll need another sample.”

“That depends.”

“On what?” There was the smallest pinch of doubt between Lucas’s brows.

“On whether or not we are officially valentines.”

Lucas grinned. “The double whammy? You’re pulling that card?”

“Of course. She who wears the daphne sets the course.”

“In that case, bring on the chubby cupids.” Lucas chuckled, his lips already nuzzling her throat. “I’m not worried about arrows. I’ve survived rhubarb geese. And . . .” His tone grew serious. “I think this is only the beginning for us, Aimee.”

“I’m good with that,” she whispered, despite the fact that her heart had just bested Vivaldi, string by glorious string.

Everything feels right finally. Thank you, Lord. Thank you.

Aimee wove her arms around Lucas Marchal’s neck and returned his kiss, very certain that this happy beginning had all the right ingredients.