CHAPTER 17 #2
“Lemon, garlic, or hot sauce?” I offered, testing her.
“Lemon only. You should know better.”
“Oh, we’ve got ourselves a purist, folks.” I grinned.
She drizzled the lemon with theatrical precision, then ate the oyster in one fluid motion, slinging it back like she was taking a shot.
Her eyes fluttered shut. “Oh my gods.”
Blanche tilted her head back and sighed. Her expression melted into something downright blissful. It was almost obscene. I couldn’t help but stare, fists clenching beneath the table.
She opened her eyes again, pupils blown wide. “I haven’t had these in years.”
“Good?” I confirmed after clearing my throat. I shifted in my seat. Get it together, Wolfe, I chided myself silently.
“‘Good’ is not good enough to describe them,” she said, reaching for another. “I’ve been to some of the best restaurants in Graymore over the years…but no oyster will ever compare to the ones right here, right off the coast. Not even close. They’re perfect. They taste like…home.”
We’d just uncorked the second bottle of Elvenberry wine—a birthday gift from Megan that Blanche had been saving for a “special occasion.” She’d chosen to bring it herself, and judging by the soft flush in her cheeks and the way she smiled at me over the rim of her glass, I was starting to think this might’ve qualified.
We were tipsy. Comfortable. The fire had burned low, casting a soft amber glow across the room, shadows dancing on the walls like they were eavesdropping.
Blanche had kicked off her shoes and curled her legs beneath her in the chair across from me.
At some point, she’d migrated closer—close enough that her knee brushed mine when she shifted, but neither of us pulled away.
Her eyes were glossy from the wine and the hour, and she’d been talking about Everwick in a way I hadn’t heard before. Less bitter. More nostalgic.
“I used to think I hated it,” she admitted, swirling the last of her wine in her glass.
“Everwick, I mean. Thought it was too small. Too slow. But now…” She looked toward the window, into the darkened woods beyond.
“There’s something about it that I can’t stop missing.
I feel like I didn’t realize how much of myself I left behind when I left her. ”
“June?”
She nodded.
I didn’t say anything to that but just let the silence exist. I wanted to reach for her hand. Almost did. But something about the quiet between us already felt like a kind of touch.
She glanced over at me, smiling softly. “This is a perfect night.”
I tipped my head. “Really?”
“Mm-hmm. The coziness…the fire, the company, the food…” She closed her eyes dramatically, as if remembering the meal again. “Gods, the food. Those oysters!”
I chuckled. “You really think food’s that powerful, huh?”
“Absolutely. Bad food, bad mood…good food, good mood. Food affects your life…makes your life better.” She lifted the wineglass to her lips for a sip.
Without thinking, I found the words slipping out: “It’s better than sex.”
Blanche froze, then sucked in a surprised breath.
Cue coughing.
She grabbed her napkin, covering her mouth, trying not to choke as she laughed through it while I just sat there, caught somewhere between horror and amusement.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, lips curling in a sheepish half smile. “I shouldn’t have said that. Must be the wine.”
“Maybe you need to have better sex,” she shot back, deadpan.
I blinked. “That’s true. But you know, in order for that to happen, I’d first need to be having sex.”
She arched a brow, swirling the last of her wine. “Maybe you should put it on your to-do list.”
I laughed. “Dear to-do list…I need to list someone. To do.”
That got a genuine laugh out of her. “That’s so terrible it might even be funny.”
“I’m a funny guy,” I deadpanned, giving the world’s most unconvincing shrug.
“No, I don’t think I’ve met him yet. I only know the mysterious one,” Blanche teased, eyes narrowing playfully over the rim of her glass.
“And what do you think of him?” I asked, tone light, but watching her closely.
She squinted, lips pursed. “Hmm…I don’t know. He broods a lot. Says little. Smolders occasionally.”
“Sounds dangerous.” I leaned in slightly.
She leaned in too. “Maybe. There’s something about him, hiding just under the surface…” Her voice lowered. “Like he might bite if you got too close.”
“Depends how close you get,” I said, letting the words linger.
Her eyes flicked to my mouth, just for a moment. The air felt charged between us.
Then she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and sat back, not breaking eye contact. “So, what else is on your to-do list?”
“Stick around and find out,” I said quietly.
The elven wine was definitely working its magic now…though I wasn’t drunk. This stuff was potent, but my kind was resilient and my blood could metabolize alcohol far easier than she could.
No…this wasn’t the wine. This was her. I watched her more closely.
The way the firelight hit her skin. The faint flush rising along her throat. The slight sheen of sweat at her collarbone. And then my senses kicked in more strongly as I caught the delicate scent of her perspiration—earthy and clean.
I listened as her pulse beat more steadily at the base of her neck. I could easily hear it. She was turned on. Curious, but trying to play it off. Her restless fingers fidgeted with her napkin, then the stem of her wineglass, like she didn’t quite know what to do with them.
I knew exactly what I wanted them to do.
I wanted them on me—clawing at my hips, trailing lower. And from the look in her eyes, from the scent in the air, from the flush in her skin—
Damn, I shouldn’t be thinking this. She’d just gotten here only a few hours ago, and this was a reset. A clean slate. I could keep these thoughts quiet…let them stir in me, as they stirred something within me.
But Blanche was thinking something too. I could tell.
The way her lips parted, the breath she held.
Her eyes had gone soft, heavy-lidded, and she was watching me the way I’d been watching her.
Not with the calculation of someone trying to flirt, but with the quiet wonder of someone feeling excitement waken and not knowing what to do with it.
A beat passed.
Then another.
I didn’t move. Neither did she.
The fire crackled. Her wineglass hung loose between her fingers, and I could see her pulse thudding softly at her throat.
Then, like dusk fading into night, the current between us dimmed to a low, steady hum.
She took a breath, deeper this time, her shoulders easing with it. The moment hadn’t vanished, but it had softened into something calmer.
She sank deeper into the chair, curling into herself a little. Her fingers let go of the glass, resting it on the table without looking. Her lips parted with a sigh, slower now, and her eyes, watchful a moment ago, grew heavy with wine and warmth. The fire’s glow flickered lazily across her skin.
The evening stretched on, slow and peaceful.
We lingered over the last bites of tart, nursed the final inch of wine, and let the conversation drift into softer currents—less banter, more quiet reflections.
She told me a story about her grandmother’s tea rituals in winter.
I told her about Foley’s habit of talking to the trees.
At some point, the second bottle sat empty on the table, the fire had dimmed to a gentle pulse, and the room took on the hush of a place getting ready to dream.
“This night…” she murmured, her voice slow, gentled. “This fire…Everwick…all of it. It’s just perfect.”
A yawn caught her halfway through the next breath. She covered it with her hand but didn’t bother to apologize. The wine, the food, the peace…it was all catching up to her now.
“And you’re here,” she added, almost in a whisper, like it hadn’t meant to come out at all. She let out a little sigh and blinked slowly, then murmured, “I’m tired…”
I smirked. “Well, I think Megan’s plan to get us drunk worked to perfection.”
Her mouth curved lazily. “Almost.”
Blanche stretched a little in her seat, then tilted her head back, letting it rest against the chair. Her eyes closed for a beat…then another.
Her hand, still holding her empty glass, tipped toward the table. I caught it before it fell.
A moment later, she was asleep.
I just looked at her for a while.
Gods, she was beautiful, so much more than I’d let myself take in the first time around. It wasn’t just her physical beauty—it was more than that. In how she moved, how she talked, how her soft, sweet presence filled a room.
She’d dropped into my life like a red leaf caught in the wind, out of season but impossible to ignore.
And yet somehow our pasts felt fated. Hers by the sea, mine in these woods.
The hush of the Hollow felt like a spell tonight.
Like we were both being pulled by some cosmic thread neither of us could see, drawn to the same silent truth.
I stood and quietly grabbed one of May’s quilts from the old wooden chest by the fireplace—soft wool, forest green with flecks of burgundy stitched like falling petals. I draped it gently over her body, careful not to disturb her.
Then I sat back down, easing into the silence.
The fire cracked softly behind me, its glow brushing the walls like whispers. Time passed in flickers, shadows shifting, embers settling, her breathing slow and even beside me.
Just the darkness and the fire. Just a man and a woman. A shared meal. A quiet night. And the start of something neither of us knew how to name…yet.
And that was enough.