CHAPTER TWO
EDEN
By the time I get home, my feet are killing me.
I kick my shoes off the second the door closes behind me, groaning with relief as I stretch my toes against the cool floorboards.
Normally, by this time, Martha has something simmering on the stove—soup, pasta, whatever she’s fancied that day—and the cottage smells like herbs and butter.
Tonight, there’s nothing but the faint smell of cut grass flowing in through the small kitchen window.
“Martha?” I call, hanging my coat, but there’s no answer. I’m too tired to worry yet. She’s probably still with Tom, tormenting him with her terrible flirting.
I head to the kitchen, fill a glass of water, and lean against the counter, letting the quiet settle around me.
A knock sounds on the door, and I blink. “Seriously?”
When I open it, Peter stands on the step, rosy cheeked, hair wind-ruffled from the fields, holding a large Tupperware tub like it’s an offering.
He’s one of the local farmers, in his early thirties and annoyingly handsome in that rugged, wholesome way that makes Martha nudge me every time he walks past.
“Evenin’, Eden.” His grin is shy but warm. “Made a new batch of soup. Thought you girls could test it for me.”
I smile despite my exhaustion. “You know we’re becoming your unpaid quality-control team, right?”
“Best team a man could ask for.” He holds the tub out. “Carrot, parsnip, bit of chilli.”
“Sounds amazing. Thank you.”
“I was gonna give it to Martha, but she was busy with a man.” He smirks like he’s teasing.
My stomach dips with curiosity. “Oh, where was she?”
“In The Stag, having a drink with a stranger.”
I blink. “A stranger?”
“Never seen him before.” He scratches his jaw. “Tall bloke. Dark hair. Didn’t look like he was from ’round here.”
A prickle creeps across my skin. Villagers call any unfamiliar face a stranger. Some poor delivery man could be branded as an outsider for weeks, but Martha never drinks with anyone she doesn’t know.
“Are you sure it wasn’t Tom?” I ask, hopeful.
Peter shakes his head. “Nope, definitely not Tom. This one looked . . . I dunno . . . city.”
City. My pulse falters.
“That’s odd,” I murmur, trying to play it off. “She didn’t mention meeting up with anyone.”
Peter smiles again, oblivious to the swirl in my gut. “Well, if you girls like the soup, let me know. And Eden?”
“Hm?”
“You look tired. Try and put your feet up, yeah?”
I manage a small smile. “I will. Thanks, Pete.”
Once he’s gone, the cottage feels oppressively quiet. I lock the door, take the soup to the kitchen, and try to shove the unease aside. Martha’s allowed a life, friends. We both deserved a fresh start.
Still . . . a stranger? A city stranger at that?
I run a bath and sink into the warmth, letting my muscles loosen. My hand drifts to my stomach, tracing the curve there. The baby wriggles, a soft flutter that always makes my breath catch. Almost halfway.
The bathroom door creaks open, and Martha’s head pops around it. “You decent?”
“Just about.” I smile. “How was your day?”
She slips inside, perching on the closed toilet lid.
“Good,” she says too casually. “Went into town. Picked up a few bits. Saw Tom.”
It’s the smallest lie, but easy to catch now I know the truth.
I narrow my eyes. “Funny. Peter said he saw you in The Stag.” Her bright expression falters. “With a stranger.” Martha’s lips press together.
She exhales slowly. “Damn villagers spot a stranger a mile off.”
“Exactly,” I reply softly. “So, who was he?”
Her shoulders drop in resignation. “Rabbit.”
My breath leaves me. “Rabbit?”
“He reached out,” she says carefully. “I wanted to see him. We’re friends, Eden. He’s been good to me.” She twists her hands. “And I didn’t think it would be a problem. We’ve been gone months now, and Kade hasn’t bothered to show up.”
The words hit like a slap—sharp, unexpected. I look away, blinking hard. “Right,” I whisper, “of course.”
Martha’s face crumples instantly. “Shit, Eden, that’s not what I meant.” She kneels beside the bath, grabbing my hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
“It’s fine,” I lie.
“It’s not. I saw the look on your face.” She squeezes my fingers gently. “I’m an idiot.”
I swallow, forcing a shaky smile. “Just, next time you’re gonna invite our old life here, tell me first. Please.”
“I will. Promise.”
She stays there a moment longer, holding my hand as if to anchor me.
Kade hasn’t bothered to show up. Maybe she didn’t mean it, but the truth in it stings all the same.
As Martha leaves the room, humming softly to cover her guilt, I sink deeper into the bath and close my eyes.
I can’t be mad. She didn’t have to follow me here.
In fact, I told her to stay. And she and Rabbit were good friends.
It may have been more, but I never really asked.
Guilt pangs in my chest. I ripped her away from the only family she ever really knew, so if she wants to see her friends, then I’ll suck it up.
The next morning starts the same as every other, but my chest feels a little tighter than usual. I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, Martha’s words replayed in the dark. “Kade hasn’t bothered to show up.”
I try to shake it off as I walk to the bookshop, scarf pulled tight around my neck, the cold nipping at my cheeks. The village is waking up slowly, with dogs tugging on leads, bakery doors swinging open, and the faint smell of cinnamon drifting across the square.
By the time I push open the bookshop door, the morning feels almost normal again.
The bell jingles overhead. “Morning,” I call.
No answer.
Mrs. Wainwright is nowhere to be seen, which usually means she’s deep inside a book fort or complaining to someone about the council.
I set my bag down, shrug out of my coat, and start stocking yesterday’s deliveries. The calm helps. Books don’t talk back. Books don’t say things that keep you awake all night. Well, unless it’s a good book.
I’m halfway through straightening a stack of crime novels when the bell above the door rings again.
“Morning, Eden.”
I turn, surprised to find Pete standing there, hands in his pockets, hair damp from the mist outside, looking far too handsome for someone who’s been up since before sunrise.
“Oh, hi,” I say, smiling. “Perfect timing. We tried your soup last night.”
His face brightens. “Yeah? How was it?”
“Delicious. You’re definitely getting the hang of this ‘soupmaker extraordinaire’ title.”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Good. Glad you liked it.”
He steps closer, his tone dipping slightly. “Listen, I was thinkin’ . . . you mentioned you’ve got a scan coming up.”
My eyebrows lift. “I did?”
“You did,” he says gently. “Couple weeks ago, when you were ordering those herbal teas. Said you’d have to take time off.”
Oh, right. I vaguely remember it now, saying the date aloud without thinking.
“Well,” he continues, shifting his weight, “I just wanted to say, if you need someone to go with you, I’m around. I know Martha will be there, but, y’know, if you want another set of hands or . . . just company.”
The offer is innocent. Sweet, even. And something in me aches, because he shouldn’t have to offer because someone else should be here for this. Someone whose absence sits like a stone in my chest.
I swallow and smile softly. “That’s really kind, Pete. Honestly. But Martha’s coming with me.”
He nods a little too quickly, like he wants to make sure I don’t feel pressured. “Good. Good, that’s . . . yeah. Just wanted to put it out there.”
“It means a lot,” I say truthfully.
He gives me that warm, countryside boy smile again. “Right, I’ll let you get on. See you girls later for soup review number six.”
I laugh. “Bring it on.”
He leaves, the bell chiming behind him.
The shop settles into silence.
Then, from somewhere behind the travel section, a voice says, “Well, he likes you.”
I jump. “Mrs. Wainwright! How long have you been there?”
She shuffles out, arms loaded with books she definitely cannot lift safely. “Long enough to know that man would plough his entire field by hand if you asked him nicely.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “He’s just being friendly.”
“Friendly?” She snorts. “That boy’s been sniffing around you since you got here.”
I choke on air. “He has not.”
She gives me a look over the rim of her glasses, the kind that reminds me she knows every secret in this village and half the next.
“You could do worse,” she adds. “Much worse.”
I straighten a pile of books that are already perfectly straight. “We’re friends. That’s all.”
Mrs. Wainwright shrugs, wandering back towards the counter. “Suit yourself, dear, but one of these days, someone’s going to love you properly, and you’d best be ready for it when it happens.”
The words hit harder than she probably intends. Because someone did love me. Once upon a time.
And I left him behind.
I press a hand to my bump, grounding myself in the way it moves beneath my palm. “I’m not looking for anything,” I murmur.
Mrs. Wainwright hums, unconvinced. “Nobody ever is. That’s how it works.”
And as she disappears behind the counter, I’m left staring at the empty doorway where Pete stood and wondering why kindness feels so heavy when it comes from the wrong man.
KADE
I’m halfway through paperwork I have zero interest in when movement out the window catches my eye. Rabbit walks past the garage, hoodie up, hands shoved in his pockets. He never walks that slow unless something’s on his mind.
I rap my knuckles on the glass. “Oi.”
He looks over, startled. I jerk my head towards the office. He hesitates then pushes the door open. “Pres?”
“Sit,” I say, leaning back in my chair as if I’m not studying every damn twitch in his face.
He drops into the chair opposite.
“What’s happening with the garage?” I ask casually. “Need anything ordered?”
“Nah, all good. I’m finishing the Ford today. Got a few bikes lined up for next week.”
I nod. Small talk. Easy. Normal. But Rabbit’s eyes keep darting towards the door.