Chapter 4
Eden
I stare at the screen.
What the hell is this?
I blink a few times, as if that’ll make the words change. As if refreshing the page might bring up a second email—one where he laughs and says, just kidding, SugarDust. I’m not going anywhere.
But the second email doesn’t come.
I lean back, crossing my arms so tight it’s like I’m holding myself together.
Might be better if you don’t wait around for me.
My stomach twists.
Is this… is this a breakup?
Can you even call it a breakup if you’ve never met the guy? I thought things were going well. That we had something going. And then he does this.
God, that’s pathetic.
I let out a long breath, tapping my nails on the edge of the laptop.
RuggedRoots was supposed to be the one good thing I had going. Our little email exchange was harmless, but it made my days feel brighter. Less lonely. Like someone out there actually saw me.
And now he’s just… done?
That’s it?
Fine.
If he wants to disappear into the mountains, that’s his problem.
It’s not like I needed him or anything.
It’s not like I was picturing what he looked like when he smiled. Or wondering if his hands were as rough as his words made them sound.
It’s not like I stayed up late, reading his emails over and over, just to feel close to someone.
Nope. None of that happened.
I ignore the way my heart sinks lower with each passing second.
I have more important things to focus on.
Like the twenty trays of scones I need to make for tomorrow. Or the fact that the kitchen still smells faintly of smoke.
Shit.
The oven timer dings, but it’s too late. The burnt smell has already wormed its way into every corner of the kitchen. Why is my whole life one big disaster lately? I swear I’m a great baker, I just feel… off my game lately.
I sigh, grabbing a towel and yanking the tray out with all the grace of someone fending off an intruder. The scones— well, what’s left of them—look like they could be used as hockey pucks.
Perfect.
As I’m glaring down at my latest failure, the bell over the front door jingles.
I don’t even have to look.
I know exactly who it is.
The air shifts—like the shop itself knows he’s here. The room feels smaller when he’s here, like the space can hardly accommodate the six-foot-something stubborn male now standing by the door.
Silas Matthews.
I know the heavy thud of those boots like I know the smell of fresh bread. It’s ingrained. Muscle memory. His walk has a weight to it—slow, deliberate, like he’s not in a rush for anyone.
He never is.
And I can practically feel his eyes scanning the room, that assessing gaze that always lingers too long. Not that he ever says anything. No, Silas isn’t the type to make things easy. He prefers to act like I’m invisible.
Well, most of the time.
Other times, he looks at me like I’m something he doesn’t quite understand. Like I’m a problem he can’t fix.
It’s infuriating.
But I swear I can tell it’s him before he even opens his mouth. My whole body goes on high alert, like some kind of Silas-tracking device. Years of sharing the same building, brushing past him in the hall, and listening to him argue with Luke have apparently tuned me in to his exact frequency.
Silas Matthews. Walking thunderstorm. Moodiest man on the mountain. The bane of my existence.
But today?
Today something’s… off.
It’s not the way he moves—because Silas always moves like he owns the place. Long, confident strides. That heavy, mountain-man presence trailing behind him like thunderclouds.
No, it’s his face.
His jaw is tight. Tighter than usual. A muscle ticking near his temple, like he’s grinding his teeth.
And his eyes.
Normally, those sharp blue eyes latch onto mine the second he walks in, ready to poke fun or give me hell about something. But today, they barely flick over me. Like I’m part of the furniture.
“Morning, Eden. Came back to fix the leak.”
That’s it. No teasing. No smug tilt of his mouth. No snarky comment about how the place still smells like burnt hopes and dreams.
Just… nothing.
“Yeah, sure.”
I don’t even know why I bother answering. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t wait for permission. Just brushes past me, all big and brooding, without a glance in my direction.
And that— that —feels worse.
It’s not like I like when he teases me. God, no. His stupid little smirks. The way he throws those half-insulting compliments at me like he’s tossing crumbs to a bird. “Nice scones, Eden. Almost burnt, just the way you like them.”
Ugh.
I hate it.
But this? This weird, silent, no-eye-contact version of Silas?
I hate this more.
I watch his back as he heads toward the kitchen, my stomach twisting in ways I can’t explain. Like maybe I poked the bear one too many times. Or maybe I wanted him to say something.
Anything.
But no.
I’m left standing there like an idiot, gripping the counter so hard my knuckles ache.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Is this because of RuggedRoots ? Is that why I’m spiraling—because one guy I’ve never even met decided I wasn’t worth sticking around for?
And now Silas Matthews can’t even be bothered to throw one of his usual grumpy comments my way?
God, I can’t do this today.
I won’t do this today.
“Mary,” I snap, spinning toward the front of the shop where she’s calmly refilling sugar jars like the world isn’t tilting under my feet. “Take care of the tables. I’ll be in the back.”
Mary barely glances up. “Sure thing, boss.”
She doesn’t question it. She doesn’t even blink.
Of course, she doesn’t.
Because I always do this.
I always run to the kitchen when Silas Matthews pushes me too far. When he makes me feel like I’m sixteen again, flushed and awkward and harboring the world’s most ridiculous crush on my brother’s best friend.
And even though I swear to myself I’m not doing it this time…
My feet still carry me through the door.
I’ll just hide out back for a while. Not because I care. Not because him acting weird has me in a twist. I’m just… regrouping.
Regrouping.
Finding out if everything is okay with the sink that’s all I’m doing. He’s already crouched under the sink, toolbelt slung low on his hips. And I swear to God, I forget how to breathe.
The flannel stretches tight across his broad back, lifting just enough to tease me with a strip of golden skin. Tight muscles ripple beneath it as he shifts, jeans hanging low—low enough that the deep, sinful dip of his hips is right there.
My core clenches, molten heat rolling through me in waves.
I should look away, but I don’t. It’s pathetic how long I stand there, blatantly ogling him like I’ve never seen a man before.
But it’s not just any man. It’s Silas.
Big, growly, pain-in-my-ass Silas, who somehow manages to look like every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had while fixing a damn pipe.
And those hands—God, those hands.
Thick and rough, scarred from years of hard work. There’s dark hair dusting the backs, his knuckles squared and strong as he twists the wrench.
I stare at them longer than I should, teeth sinking into my bottom lip as my mind spins off in directions it definitely shouldn’t.
Because all I can think is— what would those hands feel like somewhere else?
Sliding down my waist. Gripping my hips. Fisting in my hair as he takes me apart.
My thighs press tighter together, a deep throb settling low between them.
Shit.
It’s just plumbing. But I swear to God, watching Silas under that sink is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I step closer, arms crossed over my chest to keep from fidgeting. But every inch I move winds me up tighter, like I’m a walking live wire.
He shifts again, and I swear my pulse jumps right along with the flex of his forearm. Big, capable hands. Hands that could pin me down without even trying.
“Eden.”
His low, gravelly voice snaps me out of my fantasy, and I flinch, cheeks blazing.
Oh God. Did I say something out loud?
I force my eyes up— away from those sinful hands—and find Silas watching me, one brow cocked like he knows.
“Can’t work with you hovering like that.”
I snort, trying to play it off, but my heart’s still doing the damn cha-cha in my chest. “I’m not hovering.”
“You are.” He tightens the wrench, biceps flexing, and I forget how to think . “I can feel you burning a hole through my back.”
Yeah. Because I’m two seconds away from combusting.
But sure, let’s pretend I’m just keeping tabs on the plumbing.
The thing is I can’t pretend that I don’t notice that he isn’t making eye contact. Granted he’s busy but still something in me tells me there’s something off with Silas. And as soon as my vagina stops throbbing, I should ask him. I clench my legs tighter, my panties soaked as I tell myself to stop.
I push off the counter, stepping closer until I’m right behind him. My knee almost brushes his broad shoulder. “Silas.”
Still nothing.
Okay. Fine. He wants to play this game, I’ll play.
I crouch down beside him, balancing on my heels. He’s still focused on the pipes, but I’m close enough to see the crease in his brow—the tight line of his jaw.
The second I crouch down next to him, I regret it.
Not because I don’t want to be close to him. Oh no. It’s because being this close to Silas Matthews is dangerous.
His scent wraps around me like a damn chokehold—pine, sawdust, and whatever sinful soap he uses that smells like pure, unfiltered man . It makes my thighs clench involuntarily, and I swear my vagina sits up and waves .
Calm down, girl.
He’s under the sink, fixing a leak, and I’m sitting here practically ready to hump the kitchen counter.
I watch the way his arms flex, the veins in his hands standing out as he tightens the wrench. His knuckles brush against the bottom of the sink, and all I can think about is those huge, rough hands—so strong and capable.
What would those hands feel like on my thighs? Gripping my hips. Spreading me wide.
Fuck.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest aware that my nipples are erect, desperate to be touched.
“So,” I say, trying to sound casual and not like I’m two seconds away from throwing myself at him. “You’re going to pretend you’re not in some kind of mood today?”
His head barely lifts. “Not in a mood.”
Sure. And I’m not sitting here with my nipples hard enough to cut glass.
I shift slightly, and the movement draws his gaze—just for a second. Long enough for me to catch the flicker of something in his eyes before he locks it down.
He’s off.
I know Silas, and I know his grumpy moods better than anyone. This isn’t the usual irritation. This is different.
I lean closer, pretending I’m inspecting the pipes, as if I have any idea about what I’m looking at. Really, I’m just getting another lungful of him.
“You sure about that?” I press, my voice softer this time.
Nothing.
Just the faint scrape of metal against metal.
Alright. Fine.
I reach out without thinking, my hand brushing over his thick forearm, and that —that gets a reaction.
He flinches. Just barely.
But I feel it. The way his muscles twitch beneath my palm, like I shocked him.
My heart flips.
Oh.
Oh.
I linger for a second longer, letting my fingers trail over his skin, and something low and deep hums inside me. My panties are practically disintegrating.
Silas’s jaw tightens, his eyes locked on the pipe like it personally offended him.
“It’s nothing,” he mutters, voice rough enough to sand wood.
I don’t let go. I can’t. Not yet.
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
His breath hitches—so quick I almost miss it. Finally, he sits back on his haunches, prying my hand off his arm like it burns . I don’t know if I want to scream or laugh. Instead, I stay perfectly still, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I swear I taste blood.
“If you must know, I had a match,” he says suddenly, dragging a hand through his hair.
I blink. A match. Does he mean what I think he means? My stomach drops right out of my body.
“Oh.”
I hate how small that sounds. I hate the way it burns all the way down to my toes.
On the outside, I’m still as a statue. On the inside? My uterus is straight-up throwing things around like a toddler in a tantrum.
Who the hell is this woman?
I swallow the lump in my throat and force out the words. “You mean like on one of those mail order dating sites?”
Silas grunts, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor. I take his grunt as a yes.
“So, shouldn’t you be happy or something?”
“It didn’t work out,” he says, and the relief that crashes through me almost knocks me flat.
I should not feel this happy that it didn’t work out for him.
But I do.
Because the thought of Silas wanting someone else—of him touching someone else with those hands—makes me want to burn this whole cafe down.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, even though I’m not. Not even a little bit.
He shrugs, but it’s forced.
“Probably for the best,” he mutters.
I reach for him again—an instinct I can’t fight—and my hand lands just above his wrist. His pulse thrums against my fingertips, and this time… he doesn’t flinch.
“You’re not exactly easy to match,” I tease, hoping he can’t hear the thudding in my chest. “Gruff mountain man with an attitude every day of the week? Takes a special kind of woman to handle that.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but it doesn’t quite happen.
I hate that.
I want him to smile. I want him to tease me like he usually does.
But instead, he just watches me—too closely, like he’s searching for something in my face.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “Takes a special woman.”
The way he says it makes something flip inside me.
I hate how much I want to be that woman.
I give his arm one last squeeze and step back, suddenly needing to put space between us before my knees give out.
“I’ll let you finish up,” I murmur, slipping toward the front of the shop. He nods, not meeting my gaze
But I swear… I feel his eyes on me the entire way.
I slip through the kitchen doors, the warmth of the bakery front hitting me like a wall—sweet and familiar, but it doesn’t sink in. I’m too damn hollow. I tighten my apron strings, fingers tugging hard, like somehow cinching it tighter might hold me together.
But it won’t.
Not when Silas is still back there, crouched under my sink, fixing things like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t just casually tell me he had a match.
Had.
Past tense.
It didn’t work out. I should be relieved. But I’m not. Because she still existed. There was a woman out there Silas was hoping for. Someone he thought about. Someone he wanted. And it wasn’t me. It’s never me.
I lean against the counter, bracing both hands on the edge as I exhale slowly through my nose.
Get it together, Eden. But the ache in my chest won’t budge. Why did that hit so hard?
I knew this. I’ve always known this. Silas Matthews doesn’t see me that way. I’m Luke’s little sister. The baker who rents a building from him. The girl he likes to tease about burnt scones and leaky pipes.
Nothing more.
But standing back there, so damn close I could smell the soap on his skin—God, it wrecked me.
Because I wanted to crawl into his lap, grip that stupid flannel, and ask why.
Why not me?
“Eden?”
I jerk upright, blinking at Mary where she’s eyeing me from behind the pastry case, brow lifted in concern.
“You good?”
I nod too fast. “Yep. Fine. Totally fine.”
Mary’s gaze drops to my hands—white-knuckled around the edge of the counter—before sliding back to my face.
“Uh-huh.”
I release the counter immediately, shoving my hands into the pockets of my apron. This is stupid. So unbelievably stupid. It shouldn’t feel like this. I shouldn’t care this much. It’s just Silas. Gruff, broody Silas who barely says two words unless he’s griping about something.
But it hurts anyway.
Because I’ve been waiting. Hoping. Silently holding out for something that was never mine to begin with. And if that wasn’t bad enough, RuggedRoots—the one good thing I thought I had going—ghosted me too. I haven’t checked my email since last night. Can’t bring myself to see the lack of response sitting there like a final nail in the coffin of my pathetic little heart.
God. I sound ridiculous. But I liked him. Whoever he was, he made me smile. His words felt like company on the loneliest days. And now he’s gone. Just like that.
“Mary,” I say, voice tight. “Take the front. I need a minute.”
She doesn’t move right away.
“Eden—”
“I said I’m fine.”
It comes out too sharp, but I don’t take it back. I can’t.
I’m already slipping toward the hallway, needing space before I do something humiliating.
Like cry.
I can’t believe I’m holding back tears over Silas Matthews and a faceless man who doesn’t even want me. I’m not this girl. I don’t pine. I don’t sit around waiting for men to notice me. But damn if I’m not halfway to breaking that rule. I hear Mary sigh behind me, but she doesn’t argue.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll cover.”
I nod, slipping through the door before I can change my mind. And as I step into the hallway, the ache sinks lower. Because no matter how hard I try to shake it, one thought keeps circling back, gnawing at the edges of my heart. If Silas had her, and RuggedRoots decided I wasn’t worth waiting for, maybe I really am nothing to either of them.