11. Sadie #2
“Domestic’s not a bad thing.” He bites into his ham and swiss, watching me with those dark eyes. “I missed domestic. Missed having people to take care of.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Taking care of me?”
“Among other things.” His gaze drops to my mouth as I take a bite, and desire pools low in my belly. “Definitely among other things.”
The afternoon passes with planning and casual touches. Every shared look feels like we’re moving toward something inevitable.
“You know,” he says around three o’clock, “you never asked me why I really came back to Honeyridge Falls.”
I look up from the papers I’ve been pretending to organize. “Why did you come back?”
“Seeing Dean settle down with his pack was part of it. But mostly...” He leans against my counter, studying my face. “I was tired of not being where I wanted to be.”
“And where did you want to be?”
“Here. In this town. Near people who matter.” His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before snapping back up. “Near you.”
Electricity shoots through me. My scent spikes involuntarily—honeysuckle blooming richer, vanilla turning warm and inviting. From the way his pupils dilate, he catches every nuance of my body’s response.
“Caleb.”
“I know that probably sounds crazy. Organizing my entire life around someone I hadn’t seen in years.”
“It doesn’t sound crazy.” I set down my pen, turn to face him fully. “It sounds like the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
We look at each other across my small shop, and the air feels thick with possibility.
My pulse jumps when his gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps back up with deliberate control. The restraint in that simple gesture makes my core clench with want.
“I should probably order dinner,” I say, because the alternative is climbing on top of him right here.
“Chinese from Pine Valley?”
“How did you know I was thinking Chinese?”
“Because you’ve been staring at that takeout menu for the past ten minutes.”
Red creeps up my neck. “I was not staring at the menu.”
“Then what were you staring at?”
The honest answer is your hands, your mouth, the way your shirt stretches across your chest. But I can’t exactly say that without sounding desperate.
“Nothing important.”
“Uh-huh.” His grin suggests he knows exactly what I was staring at. “Want me to call in the order?”
By eight o’clock, we’re eating lo mein and sweet and sour chicken straight from the containers, sitting on my shop floor surrounded by festival plans. The shop feels intimate with the lights dimmed and the rest of the world shut out.
“This is the best dinner date I’ve ever been on,” I say, stealing a piece of his chicken.
“Even though it’s technically a working dinner in a flower shop?”
“Especially because of that.” I settle back against the counter, studying his face in the soft light. “I never have to pretend to be anything other than myself with you.”
“Why would you ever pretend to be anything else?”
The question catches me off guard. “I don’t know. Habit, I guess.”
“Sadie.” He sets down his container, turns to face me fully. “You don’t need to be easier. You’re perfect exactly as you are.”
The way he says it, like it’s obvious truth instead of flattery, makes my throat tight with emotion.
“Even when I’m covered in flower debris and eating Chinese food on the floor?”
“Especially then.” He reaches over, traces a drop of sweet and sour sauce from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. The simple touch makes my pulse skip. “This is you. Real and beautiful and completely yourself.”
The moment stretches between us, loaded with possibility. His thumb lingers against my skin, and I can see the exact moment his gaze drops to my mouth.
We finish eating in silence that feels charged. Every time he reaches for his water, I notice the flex of muscle in his forearm. When I stretch to gather scattered papers, his eyes track the movement.
The empty containers sit forgotten as we start cleaning up our planning materials, but the work feels different now. More focused. Like we’re both aware that once everything is put away, we’ll have to address the tension that’s been building all day.
“We should probably clean this up,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction.
“Probably.” But he doesn’t move to start packing anything away.
Instead, he watches me stack ribbon samples with the same intensity he’s been directing at our festival plans all day.
“Sadie.”
“Yeah?”
“I need to tell you something.”
My pulse quickens. “Okay.”
“I’ve been thinking about kissing you again since about ten this morning.”
Heat floods my system so fast it makes me dizzy. My scent must change immediately because his nostrils flare and his pupils dilate in response.
“Just thinking?”
“Thinking. Planning. Fighting the urge to back you against the counter and find out if you taste as good as you smell.” His voice has gone rough, honest in a way that sends pleasure straight to my core.
I set down the papers I was holding, my hands suddenly unsteady. “What’s stopping you?”
“Nothing anymore.”
He moves toward me with deliberate intent, giving me time to pull away if I want to. I don’t want to. I want him closer, want his hands on me, want to stop pretending I’m not dying for him to touch me.
When he reaches me, his hands frame my face gently. “You sure about this?”
“I’ve been sure since yesterday.”
He kisses me then, and it’s nothing like the gentle kiss from this morning. This kiss is claiming, consuming, months of want poured into the connection of our mouths. I respond with equal hunger, fingers fisting in his shirt to pull him closer.
He tastes like sweet and sour sauce and something purely him that makes me moan against his mouth. The sound seems to break whatever restraint he’s been maintaining, because suddenly his hands are in my hair and he’s kissing me like he’s been starving for this.
“Damn, Sadie,” he groans against my lips. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
Instead of answering, I pull him down to the floor with me, and he follows willingly. His weight settles over me, solid and warm and exactly what I’ve been craving. When he braces himself above me, muscles flexing in his arms, I want to trace every line with my tongue.
“You feel so good,” I whisper, running my hands up his chest, feeling the rapid pound of his heart.
“You smell incredible.” He buries his face in my neck, breathing deep. “Like honey and vanilla and everything I’ve ever wanted.”
His scent wraps around us—sandalwood and leather deepening with arousal until I’m drunk on it. My omega biology purrs in satisfaction, recognizing my alpha’s desire.
His mouth finds that sensitive spot below my ear that makes me arch against him with a gasp. He takes advantage of the movement to settle more fully between my thighs, and the pressure against my core makes stars explode behind my closed eyelids.
“More,” I breathe, rolling my hips against him.
“Fuck.” The word comes out strangled as he grinds back against me. “Sadie, you’re killing me.”
His hands find the hem of my sweater, sliding underneath to trace patterns on the heated skin of my waist. Everywhere he touches burns.
“Please,” I gasp when his thumb brushes the underside of my breast through my bra.
“Please what?” But his voice is rough with want, and his touch grows bolder.
“Touch me. I need—” The words dissolve into a moan when he finally cups my breast fully, thumb finding my nipple through the thin fabric.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my throat. “Let me take care of you.”
His mouth trails down my neck while his hands work magic through my clothes. When he finds my pulse point and sucks gently, I cry out and buck against him, desperate for more friction.
“You’re so responsive,” he says with satisfaction. “So perfect.”
I’m dimly aware that we’re on the floor of my flower shop, surrounded by festival planning materials and empty Chinese food containers. But all I can focus on is Caleb’s hands on my skin, his mouth working magic on my throat.
“Caleb,” I gasp when his hand slides lower, tracing the waistband of my jeans.
“Tell me what you need.”
“You. Just you.”
He captures my mouth again, this kiss desperate and consuming. I can feel him hard against my hip, and knowing I affect him this much makes me bold.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel skin against skin. He helps me, shrugging out of the fabric. In the dim light, his chest looks sculpted, marked with scars that speak of places he’s been and things he’s survived.
“Beautiful,” I whisper, tracing one with my fingertip.
“Sadie.” My name sounds like prayer when he says it.
His hands find the hem of my sweater, and I help him pull it over my head. When his gaze drops to my breasts, barely contained by my simple bra, his breathing turns ragged.
“You’re gorgeous.”
The way he’s looking at me makes me feel powerful, desired, worth this kind of attention.
“Can I?” His fingers trace the edge of my bra, asking permission.
“Yes.”
The bra disappears, and then his mouth is on my breast, tongue circling my nipple until I’m writhing beneath him. When he sucks gently, pleasure shoots straight to my core and I cry out his name.
“So sweet,” he murmurs against my skin. “Better than I imagined.”
“You imagined this?”
“Every night since the berry festival.” His confession makes me ache with want. “Thought about touching you, tasting you, making you come apart in my hands.”
Color floods my cheeks as fresh arousal pools, and from the way he groans, he can smell how affected I am.
“I want that,” I gasp as his hand slides lower, fingers tracing the button of my jeans. “Want you to make me come apart.”
“Fuck.” He rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
But his hand is already working at my button, sliding my zipper down with careful precision. When his fingers slip beneath my panties, finding me slick and ready, we both groan.
“So slick,” he says with satisfaction. “All this for me?”
“All for you.”
He explores me with gentle thoroughness, learning what makes me gasp and arch and moan his name. When he finds my clit, circling with just the right pressure, I see stars.
“That’s it,” he encourages, voice rough with want. “Let me hear you.”
When he slides one finger inside me, I cry out and rock against his hand.
“More,” I beg. “Please, Caleb, I need?—”
He adds a second finger, stretching me deliciously, thumb never stopping its motion against my clit. The dual sensation makes me wild, desperate, climbing toward something that feels bigger than anything I’ve experienced.
“You’re incredible,” he groans, fingers moving in a rhythm that’s driving me insane. “I want to watch you fall apart.”
“I’m close,” I gasp, every nerve ending on fire. The tension builds and builds, my body drawing tight like a bow. “So close, please don’t stop?—”
The phone rings.
We both freeze, panting hard, staring at each other in disbelief.
The phone rings again. Then again.
“I have to—” I start.
“No, you don’t.”
“It could be an emergency.”
He withdraws his hand with reluctance, and I immediately miss the fullness, the delicious pressure that had me right on the edge.
“This had better be life or death,” I mutter, reaching for the cordless.
“Sadie? Thank goodness!” Tessa’s voice cuts through the haze of arousal.
“I know it’s late, but I just heard from Mountain Living magazine.
They want to do a pre-festival photo shoot this weekend for some preliminary shots.
Saturday morning. He needs three centerpiece samples and one larger installation piece for the photos. ”
My stomach drops. “This Saturday? As in two days from now?”
“I know it’s short notice, but they’re flying the photographer in from Denver and this is the only time that works with his schedule before the actual festival.”
I stare at Caleb, who’s already reaching for his shirt with understanding. We have festival materials scattered everywhere, but nothing actually finished and photo-ready.
“Sadie? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. Tell them yes. We’ll have everything ready.”
“Are you sure? Because if you need more time?—”
“No.” The word comes out stronger than I feel. “We’ll make it work.”
When I hang up, the weight of what I just committed to settles over me. A professional photo shoot means everything has to be perfect.
After I hang up, Caleb and I stare at each other across my disheveled shop. My bra is somewhere on the floor. His hair is thoroughly mussed from my fingers. We both look thoroughly debauched.
“Well,” he says finally. “That’s one way to kill the mood.”
I start laughing. I can’t help it. The absurdity of it all—nearly coming apart in his hands surrounded by festival planning materials, only to be interrupted by news that we need magazine-perfect arrangements in two days.
“This is not how I imagined this evening going,” I say, reaching for my sweater.
“Which part? The part where I almost made you come on your shop floor, or the part where we found out we need to create photo-ready masterpieces by Saturday?”
Arousal blazes through me at his casual reference to what almost happened. “Both.”
He stands, extends his hand to help me up. When I take it, he pulls me close enough to press a soft kiss to my forehead.
“We’ll figure out the photo shoot,” he says against my hair. “And we’ll finish what we started here.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” His arms tighten around me. “But right now, we need to figure out what makes the perfect magazine centerpiece.”
I press my face against his chest, breathing in his scent, trying to center myself in the middle of chaos.
Two days to create festival arrangements plus a 50th birthday celebration. And somewhere in between all of that, I get to explore whatever’s building between me and three wonderful men who actually want to take care of me.
Maybe I don’t have to have it all figured out. Maybe I just need to trust that good things can happen, even to stubborn florists who are finally learning to let people help.