31. Caleb
Caleb
T hree weeks after her heat, I find Sadie in the greenhouse at dawn. She’s having what appears to be a heated argument with her plants.
“Oh, come on,” she mutters to a particularly droopy seedling, hands on her hips. “I gave you the fancy soil, the perfect lighting, and you’re still giving me attitude?”
She’s surrounded by wilted seedlings and overturned soil, dirt streaked across her cheek like war paint.
The winter growing space Reid designed is state-of-the-art, but right now it looks like a botanical crime scene.
Her hair’s escaping from yesterday’s ponytail in messy tendrils.
She’s wearing one of my old army t-shirts that hangs nearly to her knees, and seeing her in my clothes does something possessive to my chest.
“Everything’s staging a rebellion,” she announces without looking up from the carnage. “I thought I could expand into specialty growing, but apparently my plants have other ideas.”
I lean against the doorframe, content to watch her for a moment.
Even frustrated and covered in potting soil, she’s beautiful.
Dawn light through the greenhouse glass catches the gold highlights in her brown hair.
Her scent carries frustrated edges that make me want to wrap her up and fix everything.
But this isn’t about money. Reid handled all the financial pressure weeks ago with his usual quiet efficiency. This is about pride. About proving she can master new challenges.
And honestly? Watching her boss around uncooperative plants while wearing my shirt is a pretty perfect way to start any morning.
“Having a productive conversation?” I ask, finally stepping into the humid space.
She startles, spinning around with wide eyes. “Caleb! How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear you threaten a chrysanthemum with eviction.” I move closer, enjoying the way her pupils dilate as I approach. “Rough night?”
“The temperature control had a midnight breakdown.” She gestures helplessly at the destruction. “But I should have caught it earlier, should have had backup systems in place. I have zero excuses now. No money stress, no equipment issues. This is pure, concentrated failure on my part.”
I examine the damaged seedlings, immediately spotting the real culprit. The digital thermostat Reid installed shows a steady 68 degrees, but I can feel the residual heat that means it spiked much higher overnight.
“This isn’t failure. Your thermostat’s having an identity crisis—wiring’s making it lie about the temperature.”
“Wait, really?” Hope creeps into her voice.
“See how the display reads normal but there’s condensation on the glass? Classic sign of temperature fluctuation the sensor isn’t catching.” I start sorting through the plants, checking which ones are genuinely damaged versus just being dramatic. “This is totally salvageable.”
Her scent brightens with relief. “You think they’re faking it?”
“Plants are tougher than people give them credit for.” I lift a particularly pathetic-looking seedling, examining the stem. “This one here? Still has good color at the base. She’s just sulking because she got too hot.”
Sadie moves closer, studying the plant with new eyes. “How can you tell?”
“Experience. And the fact that plants are terrible liars.” I add the seedling to my growing ‘salvageable’ pile. “But more importantly, I can teach you backup systems. Temperature monitoring, emergency protocols, early warning systems for when your greenery gets moody.”
“You’d really do that?” She looks up at me with those brown eyes that still make my chest tight. “Don’t you have your own work to worry about?”
“Little flower, I’d do anything to see you succeed.” The truth makes her scent sweeten slightly. “Plus, I like working with my hands. Especially when it means spending time with my favorite florist.”
“Your only florist.”
“My only everything.” I brush a smudge of dirt off her cheek, and she leans into the touch.
We work together for the next hour and a half.
Me explaining soil chemistry while she asks brilliant questions that prove she understands plants on an instinctual level.
Her natural talent amazes me—she reads greenery like other people read books, understanding what each plant needs just by looking at it.
But I’m hyperaware of every little thing. How she leans into me when examining root systems, her body fitting perfectly against my side. The way her fingers brush mine during transplanting, sending sparks up my arms. The gradual sweetening of her scent as the humid atmosphere wraps around us.
“This soil feels different,” she says, running the potting mix through her fingers. “Lighter somehow.”
“That’s the perlite Reid added for drainage.” I step behind her, close enough that my chest almost touches her back. “Feel how it doesn’t compact when you squeeze it?”
When I reach around her to guide her hands, she goes very still. Her breathing changes, becoming shallow and quick. I can smell the exact moment her arousal spikes, sweet and desperate in the warm air.
“Like this?” Her voice comes out breathless.
“Perfect.” My hands cover hers completely, fingers threading together in the rich earth. The simple contact sends heat straight through me. “You’ve got instincts that go soul-deep.”
She leans back against me, and I can feel her pulse racing where my wrist rests against her throat. “For gardening?”
“For everything.” I brush my lips against her ear, and she shivers.
The soft sound she makes goes straight to my cock. I can smell how much she wants this, wants me, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to spin her around and claim her mouth right here among the rescued seedlings.
“Caleb.” My name comes out as barely a whisper.
“What do you need, little flower?”
That’s when she breaks. Spins in my arms and fists her hands in my shirt, yanking me down for a kiss that’s hungry and demanding and everything I didn’t know I was desperate for. Her mouth moves against mine with an urgency that matches the spike in her scent.
I let her push me backward until my hips hit the edge of the potting bench. She presses against me, her hands roaming my chest, and when her teeth find my claiming mark, I groan and grip her hips tight enough to leave fingerprints.
“Need you,” she gasps against my neck, her hands already working at my belt. “Right here, right now?—”
In one smooth movement, I lift her up and set her on the clean section of the potting bench. She wraps her legs around my waist immediately, and the height is perfect, letting me press against her core while she rocks against me without shame.
“You sure about this?” My hands work at the hem of my t-shirt she’s wearing. “Right here where we just played plant doctor?”
“Especially here.” She helps me strip the shirt away, and the sight of her bare skin in the golden light steals my breath. “This is ours. The disasters and the fixes and everything in between.”
The possessiveness in her voice completely undoes me. I claim her mouth while my hands rediscover every curve that belongs to me now. Her skin is warm and soft, flushed from the greenhouse heat and arousal. She responds with an eagerness that still amazes me—no hesitation, just complete trust.
“Sadie, you’re incredible,” I breathe against her skin, working my way down her body. “Love how you react to me.”
Her hands tangle in my hair as I lavish attention on her breasts. “Love how you touch me. Love how safe you make me feel.”
When I reach between her thighs, she’s already slick and ready through her thin sleep shorts. I work her open with gentle fingers while my mouth finds her breast again, until she arches beneath me with soft cries that echo off the glass walls.
“More,” she gasps when I add a second finger, her hips rocking against my hand. “Need you inside me?—”
“Patience, Sadie.” Though my own patience is hanging by a thread. “Gonna make this so good for you.”
I strip away her shorts and free myself from my jeans. When I line up at her entrance, she whimpers and tries to pull me deeper.
“Ready for me?”
“Yes, please, Caleb—need you so much?—”
I push into her slowly, watching her face as she adjusts. Even after three weeks of pack life, she makes me see stars. The feeling of being inside her, surrounded by her heat and scent, makes my head spin.
“Oh.” Her head falls back against the greenhouse window. “So full, feels so right?—”
“That’s it.” I begin to move in slow, deep strokes. “Take everything you need from me.”
The potting bench creaks under our movements, adding percussion to her soft moans and my rough groans.
Early sunlight streams through the glass around us, warming our skin as we move together.
The scent of earth and new growth mingles with our arousal, creating an atmosphere that feels primal and perfect.
“Love feeling you stretch me,” she pants, meeting my thrusts. “Love how you fill me up?—”
Her words push me closer to the edge. I reach between us to find her most sensitive spot, circling until she’s sobbing my name. Her inner muscles start to flutter around me.
“Come for me,” I command, increasing the pressure. “Let me feel you fall apart.”
When she comes, her cry echoes off the greenhouse glass. Her whole body arches beneath me as waves of pleasure wash over her. The sound of her pleasure, combined with the way she clenches around me, sends me over the edge. I bury my face in her throat and let go completely.
We stay connected afterward, breathing hard in the warm, plant-scented air. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my back while I press soft kisses to her claiming mark. The peaceful quiet is broken only by our gradually slowing breaths and the distant sound of birds outside.
“Well,” she says eventually, a smile in her voice. “I don’t think the plants will ever look at us the same way.”
I lift my head to meet her eyes, grinning. “Good thing plants can’t gossip.”
She laughs, the sound warm and satisfied. “You’re terrible.”
“And you’re brilliant.” I help her down from the bench, both of us moving carefully on unsteady legs.
As we clean up and get back to the real work, I watch her move among the plants with renewed confidence. Pack-claimed and thoroughly satisfied, she practically glows with contentment. The worried tension that was radiating from her when I arrived has completely disappeared.
“You know,” she says twenty minutes later, carefully transplanting one of the rescued seedlings, “I used to hate asking for help.”
“Past tense?”
“Well, I’m learning that some kinds of help come with unexpected benefits.” She shoots me a look that makes heat stir again. “The hands-on kind especially.”
“I’m always available for hands-on consultations. Equipment malfunctions, plant emergencies, general troubleshooting.”
“Feel better?” I watch her survey our work with satisfaction.
“Much better.” She stands on her toes to kiss me softly. “Thank you. For the help, and for reminding me that disasters don’t have to stay disasters.”
“They’re just opportunities to get creative. And to spend quality time with my omega in interesting locations.”
“Speaking of which.” A wicked gleam enters her eyes. “Reid’s designing a new potting shed for the back garden. I might need someone to help me... break it in properly.”
“Sweetheart.” I murmur against her lips. “I’d be happy to help you break in any new structures. Very thoroughly.”
Her delighted laughter follows us out of the greenhouse, mixing with morning sunshine and the promise of many more disasters we’ll handle together.