Chapter Thirty-Seven
She could not wait to go home.
Customers had been sparse all afternoon, the storm-dark sky growing heavier by the hour—no doubt keeping most folk indoors. Violet set the last batch of bread to cool on the rack before untying her apron and hanging it on its peg.
Her back ached, her feet throbbed, and her poor, frayed mind felt worn thin.
Two days ago, she had arrived at work to find William Ashford on the roof beside Mr. Harrow, sleeves rolled and tools in hand.
When she asked what was happening, Mrs. Harrow said that Mr. Ashford had offered to help repair the bakery roof after hearing her father remark on how badly it had been leaking.
Mr. Harrow had estimated the repairs would take two days, and he had been right.
Two long days of hearing William’s footsteps overhead; two days of seeing him through the front bakery window from her place behind the counter as he crossed the yard; two days of him stepping inside to ask after one detail or another, or accepting a bite to eat at the Harrows’ insistence.
The roof had been leaking since the last snow thaw, and she should have been grateful he’d offered to help.
Instead, she had spent every hour he was there hopelessly, infuriatingly distracted.
Every time he came down the ladder to speak with Mrs. Harrow, he greeted Violet with that warm, devastatingly handsome smile she had no defense against.
“Good day, Mrs. Grey,” he’d say politely for Mrs. Harrow’s benefit.
And then—quieter, meant only for her—
“You look well today.”
And then that half-line he always swallowed at the last moment—
“I’ve missed…”
He never finished it.
She never knew whether she wanted him to.
And the worst part?
She had burned more pastries in the days since the repairs began than she had in her entire time at the bakery.
Mrs. Harrow had even caught her earlier—when William stepped inside to say the roof was finished and to ask, on Mr. Harrow’s behalf, when Mrs. Harrow would be ready to leave for the day, Violet forgot the tarts entirely.
The sharp scent of sugar beginning to scorch made her whirl around—just in time to see Mrs. Harrow smiling behind her hand, eyes sparkling with far too much understanding.
Violet had offered to stay behind and finish the last of the bread—shaping loaves, packing baskets—while Mr. and Mrs. Harrow hurried off to visit an elderly aunt.
With the roof complete, William had offered to see them on their way, carrying the parcels Mrs. Harrow had prepared for their visit.
She told herself she was relieved to see him go.
She told herself she believed it.
Violet glanced toward the window just in time to catch a white-hot flash tearing across the sky.
A crack of thunder followed, sharp enough to make her jump, her heart skittering.
Then the heavens opened, rain hammering against the panes in heavy sheets.
She pressed a hand to the glass, watching the storm sweep violently across the village and thinking of Lily tucked safely at her parents’ cottage.
They knew she would wait out bad weather at the bakery, and she was grateful for that—at least her daughter wouldn’t have to walk home in this.
Waiting was the only option.
She lit a lamp, then began tidying the counter, humming a faint tune under her breath in a futile attempt to settle her nerves. The melody wavered with every crash of thunder, the quiet of the bakery making each rumble feel as though it vibrated straight through her ribs.
And then—
The door banged open.
A rush of cold, rain-laden air swept in.
William stepped through, soaked to the skin—hair plastered to his forehead, shirt clinging to every line of him, boots dripping onto the floorboards.
Violet spun around, her breath catching hard.
“I thought you left,” she said, sharper than intended.
“I did,” he answered, his breath uneven. “But when the storm broke—I knew you were staying late. I couldn’t… I didn’t want you alone in this.”
His eyes swept over her, checking for any sign of distress.
The care on his face was unmistakable.
Too unmistakable.
Violet felt heat rush to her cheeks—anger, fear, longing.
She could no longer tell the difference.
She stiffened.
“You didn’t need to come back.”
“I know.”
He took a step closer, rain trailing from his sleeves.
“But I couldn’t leave you here without knowing you were safe.”
“I’m fine, William,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “I was just going to wait out the storm and then fetch Lily from my parents’ cottage.”
“Well,” he replied simply, “I’ll wait with you now.”
The words hit her like a jolt.
“No,” she blurted, far too quickly. “No—you can’t stay here with me.”
“What would you have me do?” His mouth curved, the faintest smirk tugging at one corner. “Step back out into that?”
He nodded toward the window where lightning split the sky in a vicious fork.
“I could get hurt.”
For a heartbeat, she could only blink at him.
Of all the ridiculous things to say—at a moment like this—
she almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, the breath in her chest turned sharp as she really looked at him.
He was dripping onto the bakery floor.
Sodden.
Breathless.
Rain slicked his hair to his forehead; his shirt clung to him like a second skin.
He looked as though he’d run half the countryside just to reach her.
A sound slipped from her—half a laugh, half disbelief.
He was impossible.
Utterly, infuriatingly impossible.
Another boom of thunder shook the building. She ignored the flinch that ran through her and kept her eyes on him.
And he—
He was looking at her with an expression she had not seen in five years.
Soft.
Warm.
Unguarded.
“You came back here,” she said quietly, “in this rain… to make sure I was safe.”
His breath hitched—barely, but enough.
“Of course I did.”
Something hot and frightening and familiar unfurled low in her stomach.
She swallowed.
“That was reckless.”
He stepped toward her.
“Then I’ll be reckless,” he murmured. “If that’s what it takes.”
Thunder cracked again, closer now, rattling the windowpanes.
But Violet didn’t flinch this time.
She didn’t look away.
Not from the sincerity in his eyes.
Not from the rainwater sliding down his cheek like a tear.
Not from the man she had once loved with every tender piece of herself.
The room felt suddenly too small.
Too warm.
Too full of everything she’d tried so hard not to feel.
Violet’s breath hitched as she took a step toward him.
“William…” she said—meant as a warning, but it fell apart the moment it left her lips.
He moved closer as well—slow, deliberate—as if giving her every heartbeat to turn away.
“I had to know you were all right,” he said softly.
But it wasn’t all.
They both knew it.
They both felt it.
She took another step—closing the scant space between them until her breath mingled with his.
The air between them pulsed—thick, alive, electric as the storm roaring outside.
Her pulse hammered.
Her hands curled at her sides.
Every wall she’d rebuilt over five long years trembled under the weight of memory… longing… fear… want.
She whispered, almost against her will—
“Why do you keep doing this?”
Rain-chilled hands slid to her waist, drawing her closer as he lowered his head toward hers, his breath warm against her lips as he murmured,
“You know why.”
Then his mouth found hers, and five years of buried longing surged between them in a single, devastating kiss.
William groaned and held her tighter, kissing her like a man finally holding everything he had ever wanted.
Her back hit the wall with a soft thud.
This was nothing like the tender, breathless moments beneath their old oak tree.
There was no gentleness here.
No hesitation.
This was need—five years of it—breaking loose at once.
His mouth was everywhere: her jaw, her cheek, her throat.
He kissed her like he was relearning something holy he’d once lost.
“Violet,” he groaned.
“William… we shouldn’t…”
The protest dissolved on her tongue as he kissed her again.
“I know,” he breathed, voice frayed, his lips trembling against hers.
“But I’ve gone five years without you… I don’t have it in me to pull away.”
Her resolve crumbled—quietly, helplessly—beneath the weight of his words.
“I’ve missed you—so much,” she breathed, tugging him back down to her lips.
His whole body tightened at her words, as though something inside him finally snapped free.
With a low, unsteady sound, he turned her so her front met the wall, his mouth finding the soft line of her throat. Kisses burned a desperate path across her neck, urgency sharpening with each one. A trembling hand drifted down the length of her spine, reverent and unsteady.
There—hidden beneath the folds of fabric—lay the tiny, meticulously set hooks fastening her gown.
He began unhooking them one by one.
The first resisted his shaking fingers, then gave with a small, sharp snap.
Her pulse skittered at the noise.
The second.
The third.
A slow, stumbling surrender down the line as he worked, each one freed with careful, almost frantic intent.
A shiver rippled through her.
He pressed his mouth to the curve where her neck met her shoulder, lips brushing the delicate edge of her collar as another hook slipped loose beneath his hands.
Violet let her head fall to the side, baring her throat, her hands flattening against the wall as heat flooded her skin.
The storm roared outside.
Inside, the only sound was their breathing—rough, uneven, urgent.
His fingers brushed the bare skin beneath her gown as the fabric loosened, and she felt his breath falter against her shoulder.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice breaking.
She closed her eyes, breath shuddering.
“William…” she whispered—years of ache wrapped in his name.
“Please… don’t stop.”
That was all it took.
She turned to face him, the unfastened gown slipping from her shoulders to pool softly at her feet. Her hands found his arms, gliding upward in a slow, reverent path until they reached the breadth of his shoulders.