Chapter 11 Cara #2
His whole face lights up. He keeps my hand in his as he leads me through the rows, explaining each plant with the enthusiasm of someone sharing their greatest passion.
His thumb traces absent circles on my palm while he talks about root systems and bloom cycles.
Every touch sends warmth through me—not just arousal, though there’s that too, but something deeper.
Recognition. My body remembering what my heart never forgot.
He only lets go when he needs both hands to touch leaves, check soil, straighten pots—and then he reaches for me again, like he can’t help it. Like his hand needs to know where I am.
“This is winter jasmine,” he says, stopping at a plant covered in tiny yellow flowers. “Most people think nothing blooms in winter. But that’s not true. You just have to know where to look.”
“Is this your metaphor?” I ask, smiling. “Winter blooms? Second chances?”
“Maybe.” He ducks his head, that flush creeping back into his cheeks. “Is it working?”
“Little bit.”
He shows me hellebores—”Christmas roses,” he calls them—with their delicate purple petals. Witch hazel with its spidery yellow blooms. Camellias that won’t flower until February but are already forming buds.
“I love this time of year,” he admits, leading me to a corner filled with seedling trays. “Everyone thinks winter is death. But underground, everything is preparing. Roots are growing. Energy is storing. Spring doesn’t just happen—it’s being built, right now, where no one can see it.”
“You really do think in metaphors.”
“Occupational hazard.” He picks up a tiny seedling, barely more than two leaves.
“This is going to be a tomato plant. Right now it looks like nothing. Give it six months and it’ll be taller than you and producing fruit.
” He sets it down gently. “I like that. The idea that small things become big things if you give them what they need.”
I think about my books. About the small idea that became a career. About the three boys who became men I’m only now getting to know.
“Yeah,” I say. “I like that too.”
He shows me his propagation station, where he’s growing new plants from cuttings. His seed library, organized by type and season in old card catalog drawers. The little corner with a space heater and a worn armchair where he sits and reads when the world gets too loud.
I settle into the armchair while he works. It’s as comfortable as it looks—worn soft in all the right places, smelling faintly of him. Like being wrapped in his scent.
“I come here when I can’t sleep,” he admits. “Talk to the plants. They’re good listeners.”
“Better than people?”
“Less complicated than people.” He picks up a watering can, starts checking the soil in various pots. Even now, even with me here, he can’t stop taking care of things. “Plants just need the basics. Water. Light. Good soil. They don’t overthink everything. They don’t have baggage.”
“Unlike humans.”
“Unlike humans.” He glances at me. “Unlike me, specifically. I’ve been overthinking this conversation since the day you left.”
I’ve had enough.
I stand up from his armchair. Cross the space between us. Take the watering can out of his hands and set it on the nearest table.
“Theo.”
“Yeah?” His voice is soft. Hopeful.
“I told myself I came back to Honeyridge Falls to help my grandmother.” I step closer.
His scent wraps around me—pine and earth and cedar—and my whole body responds.
Heat pooling low. Pulse quickening. Every instinct I have recognizing what I’ve wanted all this time.
“But I think I was lying to myself. I think I came back for you. For all three of you.”
“Cara—”
“I’ve spent ten years writing about the life I was too scared to live.” Another step. My heart is pounding so hard he can probably hear it. “And then I saw you at the auction, and I thought—okay, Cara. You can keep running, or you can finally do something about this.”
“You bid on all three of us.” His voice is rough.
“I did.” I laugh, a little shaky. “Spent way too much money. Grandma’s going to have opinions about my financial decisions.” I reach up, touch his jaw. My hand is trembling. “I know I hurt you. I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But I’m asking for one anyway.”
“Cara.” He covers my hand with his, pressing it against his cheek. His eyes are bright. “I’ve been waiting ten years for you to come back.”
Oh.
“You have?”
“I never stopped hoping.” So earnest. So completely Theo. “None of us did.”
“Tell me to stop and I will.” I’m inches from his mouth now. “Tell me this is a terrible idea and I’ll back off. But if you don’t—”
He doesn’t tell me to stop.
So I kiss him.
I kiss him like I’ve been thinking about it for ten years. Because I have.
And he kisses me back immediately—no hesitation, no uncertainty.
Just a decade of wanting finally allowed to be real.
His hands find my waist and pull me closer, and god, it’s better than I imagined.
Better than I wrote. He tastes like coffee and something sweet, and his scent goes thick and warm as his body responds to mine.
Something inside me sighs with relief. Finally. Finally, finally, finally.
I press closer, needing more. His fingers flex on my hips. Tighten. Like he’s trying to hold himself back.
I don’t want him to hold back.
“Theo.” I nip at his lower lip. “Stop thinking.”
He groans against my mouth. His hands slide up my back, pulling me flush against him, and when I feel him hard against my stomach, slick gathers between my thighs. My body knows what it wants. What it’s been denied for a decade.
“Cara.” He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to mine. “We should—I don’t want to rush—”
“I’ve waited ten years.” I press a kiss to his jaw. “That’s not rushing.”
“I want to do this right.” His voice is strained. His hands are still holding me close, contradicting his words. “You deserve—”
“Maybe I do.” I pull back to look at him. His eyes are dark with want, lips parted, breathing hard. “Maybe we both do. After all this time.”
He stares at me. Wonder flickers across his face. Maybe awe.
“You really did come back for us.”
“I really did.” My voice cracks a little. “Terrifying, right? I’m terrified. But I’m here anyway.”
He’s quiet for a moment. I watch him struggle with it—this man who’s spent his whole life putting others first. Learning to want is hard. I know that better than anyone.
“I want you,” he says finally. “I want to kiss you until neither of us can think straight. I want to take you home and cook you dinner and fall asleep with you in my arms.” His voice drops. “I want to be someone you came back for. Not just the nice one. Not just the safe one.”
“You are.” I kiss the corner of his mouth. “You always were.”
He makes a sound low in his throat and kisses me again. Harder this time. Less careful. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back, and I let him take what he needs because god, I need it too.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His scent has gone thick and heavy with arousal, and I can smell myself responding—slick gathering, body readying itself for an alpha it’s wanted for far too long.
“Cara.” His voice is strained. “If we don’t stop, I’m going to do something very inadvisable in my greenhouse.”
“Would that be so bad?” I trail my fingers down his chest. Feel his muscles tense under my touch.
“Yes.” He catches my hand, brings it to his lips. “Because I want to do this right. Not fast and desperate against a potting bench.”
“That sounds kind of hot, actually.” I grin at him, even though my heart is pounding. “Just saying.”
“Cara.” His voice is somewhere between a groan and a plea. “You’re killing me.”
I laugh and step back, giving him space to breathe. He looks wrecked—hair mussed, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. Exactly how I imagined him when I wrote those scenes.
“Rain check on the potting bench?”
“Definitely rain check.” He runs a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. “Do you want to... I don’t know. Get dinner? I could cook. I’ve got a little space here at the nursery with a kitchen. If that’s not too forward.”
“You’re inviting me to dinner after I just stuck my tongue down your throat, and you’re worried about being too forward?”
“I’m trying to be a gentleman.”
“Dinner sounds great.” I smooth down his collar, which definitely didn’t need smoothing. “Lead the way.”