3. Sadie
Sadie
T uesday evening, I told Levi I could handle the rest myself. Which was partly true. Maeve had given me directions to her friend’s farm where I could gather some replacement greenery and late-season wildflowers. But mostly I needed space to think.
I spent the evening driving country roads and cutting branches by headlight, trying not to replay every word he’d said. “I want to take care of you.” The way his voice had gone rough when he promised “later.” How close we’d stood when he said it.
I barely slept Tuesday night.
Wednesday morning, the shop feels different.
The floors are dry enough to walk on, though I’ve got every fan I own running to air them out.
The damage looks less catastrophic in daylight, manageable even.
I’m arranging the wildflowers I gathered when I remember I left my good clippers in the back room.
When I return to the front counter, there’s something that wasn’t there before.
A brand new leatherbound notebook sits beside my cash register. I flip it open and find pressed maple leaves tucked between the pages, along with a small poem in careful handwriting.
The handwriting I recognize immediately. Levi.
The pressed maple leaves are perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Golden and crimson and orange in every shade that exists.
Like he spent hours sorting through fallen leaves to find exactly the right ones.
Each one pristine, carefully preserved between paper with the kind of attention that speaks of someone who understands beauty is worth preserving.
But it’s the poem in his careful handwriting that makes my chest feel tight and warm.
Seven-thirty, every day, Coffee steaming on the tray. But it’s not the brew I bring. It’s your smile that makes me sing.
When you look up from your flowers, that one look could last for hours. Coffee’s just my sweet excuse to see the joy you never lose.
I stare at the words until they blur. Reading them over and over.
This is just Levi being kind, I tell myself firmly. A thoughtful friend helping through a crisis.
Except…
The fact that he spent his evening picking perfect leaves?
Writing me a poem? Getting me a new notebook to replace my water-damaged order book?
That doesn’t feel like just friendship. That feels like someone who pays attention to what I need.
The way I notice when Mrs. Woodbury needs cheerier colors.
Or when Pastor Williams requires something simple for difficult funerals.
I trace one of the pressed leaves with my fingertip. Wondering what it means that a quiet bookstore owner is leaving poetry and practical gifts in my shop. Wondering what I’m supposed to do with the warm feeling that spreads through my chest every time he stops by with coffee.
Tomorrow is the rehearsal dinner. The replacement flowers I gathered last night are arranged and ready, and I’ve managed to create something that actually looks intentional rather than desperate. The rustic style might even be better than my original plan.
And all I can think about is the way he looked at me yesterday when he said he wanted to take care of me.
Wondering if maybe…
My door chimes and Caleb Maddox fills the entrance.
Makes my small shop feel even smaller than usual.
It’s been weeks since the berry festival. Since that moment when childhood familiarity shifted into adult awareness and left us staring at each other like we’d never met before.
Seeing him still affects my pulse in ways that have nothing to do with nostalgia.
He’s wearing work clothes that look like they’ve actually been worked in. Faded jeans with honest wear. Dark button-down rolled to his elbows. Combat boots that have seen real use. There’s a tool belt hanging low on his hips. His dark brown hair shows the first hints of silver at the temples.
Everything about him radiates competence and strength.
But it’s his forearms that catch my attention. Strong and defined. With a small scar near his wrist that speaks of hands that have built things. Fixed things. When he shifts the tool belt, the movement draws my gaze to his narrow hips.
I have to force myself to look away.
There’s something different about how he carries himself now, too. More settled. Like someone who’s finally figured out where he belongs.
“Sadie Quinn.” His voice carries warmth but there’s an edge there too. A rough concern that makes my pulse stutter. “Aunt Maeve told me what happened. Why didn’t you call?”
I set the notebook down carefully on my counter, my hands suddenly unsteady. “Caleb. How’s civilian life treating you?”
“Don’t change the subject.” He steps into the shop, and I can see the tension in his shoulders.
I breathe in his scent immediately. Warm, masculine.
Woodsy and rich with hints of leather. Even through my worry about the water situation, my omega instincts respond with gentle recognition.
Then interest. “You’ve had no water since yesterday morning. That’s over twenty-four hours, Sadie.”
Heat flushes through my cheeks. “I’ve been managing.”
“Managing?” His voice gets sharper. “You can’t shower.
Can’t make coffee. Can’t even use your bathroom properly.
” He examines my ceiling with focused attention, but there’s frustration in every line of his body.
“Dean told me about your roof situation, but Aunt Maeve had to tell me you’ve been living without water because you’re too stubborn to ask for help. ”
I’m suddenly aware I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes. Jeans with a hole near the knee. Sweater that’s seen better days. And yes, I probably smell like someone who’s been washing with bottled water and floral preservative.
“That’s really nice of you to offer, but I’m sure you have other things?—”
“I don’t have other plans.” He moves closer, and I can see genuine concern mixed with exasperation in his dark eyes. “I’m staying at the old Miller place while I figure out what comes next. Just finished processing out of the service yesterday afternoon.”
“That’s a big change. Sixteen years, right?”
“Sixteen years was enough.” He’s already pulling tools from his belt. “First things first, let’s get your water back on. Then we’ll talk about the roof.”
My bank account wins the argument with my pride. “Okay. Yes. I’d appreciate that.”
He moves toward the area where water had been pouring through the ceiling.
I try not to notice how he fills my small shop space.
How his shoulders look broad under the work shirt.
When he crouches down to examine the warped floorboards, then looks up at the ceiling damage, I find myself staring at the flex of muscle in his arms.
“Where exactly was the leak coming from?” All business now, but his voice has gone rougher.
I point to the spot above my display area. He examines it with a flashlight from his tool belt, testing the ceiling tiles and probing the soft spots. His movements are careful. Competent.
When he turns to face me in the small space, we’re suddenly much closer than either of us expected.
“This needs new joists. New insulation. Everything.” His eyes hold mine. I can see the exact moment his gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up. “It won’t be cheap, Sadie.”
The number he gives me makes my knees wobble. Actually wobble.
“That’s if you hire a contractor.”
“Caleb, I can’t afford?—”
“I know where to get most of these materials. Salvage yard has good lumber, and I’ve got connections from working on houses around town before I enlisted. Materials cost would be maybe a third of retail. Labor’s free.”
“Let me help an old friend?” He turns to face me directly. Too close. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. “You used to follow Dean and me around every summer. Figure I can help you out now.”
The memory hits hard. Me at ten. Stubborn and determined. Trailing after the coolest teenagers in town like a lost puppy.
“You remember that?”
“I remember you tagging along everywhere. Always trying to keep up.” His voice gets quieter. “Didn’t expect to come back and find you all grown up.”
That moment of shock and recognition. Sudden awareness that the boy I used to follow around had become a man who could make my knees forget how to work.
Heat races through my system. Again.
My heart pounds faster. My scent changes without permission. Honeysuckle blooming sweeter, vanilla turning warm and rich. He breathes deeper, catching the shift. His own warm, woodsy smell grows richer in response.
We’re standing in my small shop, talking about childhood memories. But what’s happening here feels adult and heated. Makes my pulse race and my body want things I shouldn’t be thinking about.
This is dangerous territory.
“So.” I step back deliberately. Need space to think clearly. “When would you start the work?”
Professional distance slides back into place. Though something heated lingers in his eyes.
“This weekend if that works for your schedule. I’ll need to pick up materials Friday.But I know you’ve got the Kerr wedding Saturday. We could work around that… start early Saturday morning before you need to prep, then finish up Sunday.”
“That could work. The wedding flowers don’t need much prep time since the rehearsal dinner arrangements are already handled and they are reusing them for the wedding dinner.”
“Right.” He considers this carefully. “I’ll start Saturday at dawn, get the structural work done while you’re handling the wedding. Should have you completely waterproof by Sunday evening.”
The efficiency reminds me exactly why I used to trail after him and Dean. They always had a plan. Always knew how to break down impossible problems into manageable steps. Made everything seem fixable.
“This is too much, Caleb. You probably have your own life to figure out.”
“Like what?”
The simple question catches me off guard. “I don’t know. Isn’t there someone you should be spending time with? A girlfriend or...?”
The words come out more awkward than intended. But I need to know.
“There’s not.” His answer is immediate and definitive. “Haven’t been anyone serious in a long time. Haven’t been anyone at all, actually, since I’ve been back.”
“Oh.”
“What about you? Someone I should know about before I start hammering on your roof at ungodly hours?”
The question catches me completely off guard. There’s no boyfriend. But there are feelings developing. About a bookstore owner who finds beautiful passages. About the man standing here offering to fix my roof and looking at me like I’m something worth protecting.
“No. No one serious.” Though even as I say it, I can feel Levi’s notebook on the counter behind me, and wonder if that’s completely honest anymore.
“Good.” Quiet, but with emphasis that makes my pulse stutter. “But first, let me take care of that water situation. You shouldn’t have gone this long without basic plumbing.”
“Caleb, you don’t have to?—”
“This is why I’m here.” He’s already pulling tools from his belt, scanning the shop. “You have a step ladder? Probably just a loose coupling that finally gave way. Old pipes don’t like sudden temperature changes - could have been the stress from the recent cold snap.”
“There’s one in the back storage room.”
I watch him retrieve the ladder and set it up directly under the worst of the water damage. He climbs up with practiced ease, pushing aside a ceiling tile to examine the plumbing in the roof space above.
I watch him work, competent hands making quick adjustments to pipes I can barely see. There’s something mesmerizing about watching someone who knows exactly what they’re doing solve a problem that seemed insurmountable to me.
“Now let me turn your main water back on,” he says, climbing down and heading to the utility closet where I’d shut off the valve yesterday morning. I hear the metallic squeak of the valve being turned.
“Try your faucet,” he says, folding the ladder.
I turn the handle at my small sink behind the counter, and clean water flows out. Real water. For the first time in over twenty-four hours.
“Oh my god.” Relief floods through me so strongly I actually feel tears prick my eyes. “Caleb, thank you.”
“Temporary fix,” he warns, wiping his hands on a shop rag. “Still need to do the full repair this weekend. But this should hold until then.”
He gathers his tools with the same efficiency he used to fix the problem. “Now you can shower and make coffee. Take care of yourself.”
When he’s gone—leaving behind lingering woodsy warmth and the promise of weekend construction—I sit on my couch with Levi’s notebook and try to process what just happened.
Caleb’s back permanently. He’s fixing my roof for maybe a third of what it would normally cost and labor is free. He asked about my love life like the answer mattered. My body responded to his scent like it hasn’t responded to anyone in years. Immediate. Interested. Completely beyond my control.
Ten-year-old me is doing victory laps.
Twenty-nine-year-old me is terrified.
I read Levi’s poem again. ”Coffee’s just my sweet excuse to see the joy you never lose.
” The words make my chest warm all over again.
About how he’s been coming by twice a week not for routine, but because he wanted to see me.
About how I’m apparently developing feelings for two different men at the same time, and maybe that’s not as impossible as I always thought it would be.
Outside my window, fall is settling over Honeyridge Falls like a promise.
Earlier I noticed a sleek black car parked near the town square.
Expensive-looking, nothing like the trucks and older sedans most locals drive.
Someone new in town, probably. With the Harvest Festival coming up in a few weeks, we always get visitors looking to scout locations or plan events.
Something about that expensive car makes me wonder what else might be heading my way.