Chapter 6 Elijah #2
“I’m fine.” She’s smoothing down her coat, squaring her shoulders. Snapping back into professional mode. “I just didn’t see the—” She stops. Takes a breath. When she looks at me again, something in her face has softened. “Thank you. For catching me.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
I don’t mean for it to come out like that. Like a promise. Like I’d catch her every time she fell, if she’d let me.
But she hears it—I can tell by the way her scent goes warmer, uncertain. By the way she looks at me, really looks, like she’s seeing me for the first time.
We walk the rest of the way in silence. I stay close to her side, ready to catch her again if I need to.
I hope I need to.
Meadow’s End is warm and bright after the January gray outside.
Sadie looks up from behind the counter when we come in, her face breaking into a smile. “Tessa! Elijah! Are those my vases?”
I set the crate on the counter, and Sadie’s already reaching in before I can step back. She pulls one out, holds it up to the light, and makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob.
“Elijah.” She clutches the vase to her chest. “These are perfect. They’re absolutely perfect.”
“Told you,” Tessa says, and there’s warmth in her voice that I don’t hear often. “He’s gifted.”
I duck my head, focus on adjusting the crate. Compliments make me itchy. Always have.
“Let me get some flowers,” Sadie says, already moving toward the back cooler. “I want to see how they look together.”
She returns with an armful of red and pink blooms—roses, tulips, ranunculus with their tissue-paper petals. Her hands move quick and sure as she arranges them in the vase, tucking stems into the hollow center, adjusting angles until everything sits just right.
“The opening is perfect,” she murmurs, more to herself than us. “See how it cradles the stems? And the grain—Elijah, this grain is gorgeous.”
“Curly maple.” The words come easier when I’m talking about the work. “I chose pieces with strong figure so they’d catch the light. Three coats of oil to bring out the color.”
Sadie runs her thumb along the rim. “You can feel where you shaped it. The curve.”
“Hand-carved. Every one.” I don’t know why I’m explaining—she didn’t ask—but her appreciation makes me want to share. “Machine cutting would’ve been faster, but it doesn’t feel the same. Doesn’t hold the light the same way.”
Tessa’s quiet. When I glance over, she’s staring at the finished arrangement—wood and flowers together, the way they were always meant to be.
“The vases were beautiful before,” she says softly. “But this... this is something else.”
It is. The maple catches the light, the flowers spill over the curved edges, and the whole thing looks like something out of one of those magazines Tessa probably reads but would never admit to.
Sadie sets the vase down and looks at Tessa—really looks, the way she does when she’s about to meddle.
“Tessa.” Sadie crosses her arms. “When’s the last time you ate?”
Tessa’s scent spikes. Defensive. “I had coffee this morning.”
“Coffee isn’t food,” Sadie says.
“It has calories.”
Sadie looks at me, eyebrows raised. Backup requested.
“When?” I ask Tessa.
“When what?”
“When did you eat actual food?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her jaw tightens.
“I’ve been busy.”
That’s not an answer. We both know it.
“Elijah.” Sadie’s voice has that tone—the one she gets when she’s made up her mind. “Take her to Maeve’s. Make sure she eats something that isn’t coffee or a granola bar from her desk drawer.”
“I have work—”
“Your work will still be there in an hour.” Sadie’s already shooing us toward the door. “Go. Eat. Consider it an order from your florist.”
Tessa looks at me, hesitation written all over her face. I can see her calculating—how long it will take, what she’s missing, whether she can argue her way out of this.
I don’t give her the chance.
“Come on.” I hold the door open. “My treat.”
The Honey Crumb smells like cinnamon and fresh bread and something sweet baking in the back.
Maeve looks up from behind the counter when we walk in, silver hair pulled back in its usual braid. Her eyes go from me to Tessa to the determined set of my jaw, and a knowing smile crosses her face.
She’s known me since I was a kid. Probably knows exactly what I’m thinking right now.
“Elijah Smith. Tessa Lang.” She’s already reaching for plates. “Sit. I’ll bring you something.”
“I can order—” Tessa starts.
“You’ll eat what I bring you.” Maeve’s tone brooks no argument. She’s looking at Tessa with that expression she gets—part maternal, part all-seeing. “You’ve lost weight, girl. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
Tessa’s cheeks flush. “I’ve been busy—”
“Busy doesn’t mean you skip meals. Sit.”
We sit.
The corner booth is small, intimate. Warm light from the frosted windows, the smell of bread and honey, a quiet that feels different from the silence in my workshop.
Tessa slides in across from me, and I’m suddenly aware of how close we are.
How her scent is filling the small space.
How the lavender is winning out over the citrus now, softening around the edges.
She looks smaller somehow. Younger. Without the armor of her clipboard and spreadsheets, without the constant motion that usually surrounds her, she’s just a woman. A tired woman who works too hard and takes care of everyone except herself.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” she says, but there’s no real heat in it. “I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.”
“I know.”
“I just get focused. When there’s a lot to do.”
“I know.”
She glares at me. I let her. It’s better than the alternative—better than reaching across the table and taking her hand, telling her she doesn’t have to do everything alone.
Maeve arrives with two plates piled high—thick sandwiches on fresh bread, still-warm scones, apple slices with honey on the side. She sets them down without ceremony, then adds two mugs of something steaming and rich-smelling. Hot cider, from the smell of it. Cinnamon and cloves.
“Eat,” she says. Her hand rests briefly on Tessa’s shoulder—a touch that’s somehow both gentle and firm. “And slow down, girl. The world won’t end if you take an hour for yourself.”
She disappears back behind the counter, but I catch her glancing at us. Still watching. Still knowing.
For a moment, Tessa just stares at the food. Her throat moves as she swallows, and I wonder when the last time someone took care of her like this. Made her stop. Made her eat. Made her feel like she mattered more than her to-do list.
Then the tension drains out of her shoulders, and she picks up half the sandwich.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For this. For catching me earlier. For...” She waves a hand vaguely. “Everything, I guess.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know. I’m doing it anyway.” She takes a bite, and her eyes close briefly. A small sound escapes her—something between a sigh and a moan—and heat crawls up my spine. “God, this is good. I forgot food could taste like this.”
I eat my own sandwich and try not to watch her too obviously. Try not to notice the way she hums a little when she bites into the scone. The way her scent is going sweeter, warmer, with every passing minute. The way she licks a drop of honey off her thumb without thinking about it.
She has no idea what she’s doing to me. No idea how hard I’m working to keep my breathing steady, my hands on my own food, my eyes on my own plate.
Three years I’ve been watching this woman. Three years of wanting something I never thought I could have.
“Elijah.” She’s looking at me now, head tilted. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why are you doing this?” She gestures vaguely at the plates, the bakery, everything. “The lunch, walking me around, making sure I eat. You don’t have to.”
I think about lying. Making a joke. Deflecting the way I usually do.
But it’s Tessa. And she asked. And I’m tired of hiding.
“I wanted to.”
She blinks. “That’s it? You wanted to?”
“You needed to eat. I could help.” I shrug, look down at my plate. “It’s not complicated.”
“But you barely talk to anyone. You could’ve just dropped off the vases and left.”
“I could’ve.”
“Then why—”
“Because it’s you.” The words come out before I can stop them. Honest. Raw. Probably too much. “You needed something. I could give it. That’s enough.”
She goes still.
Her scent changes.
It’s subtle at first—just a deepening of the lavender, a warmth spreading underneath. But then it blooms, sweet and rich and wanting, and the smell of her arousal hits me like a fist to the chest.
My hands curl around my coffee mug so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. Heat floods through me, my pulse pounding in my ears. I want to lean across this table and bury my face in her neck. Want to find out if she tastes as good as she smells.
I don’t move. Can’t move. If I move, I’m not going to stop.
Her cheeks are flushed. Her breathing has gone shallow. She’s looking at me like she’s seeing me for the first time.
I don’t know what to do with that. Don’t know what to do with any of this.
“Elijah—”
“Finish your food.”
It comes out rough. But I need her to stop looking at me like that before I do something stupid.
Before I forget we’re in Maeve’s bakery in the middle of the day.
Before I forget that Ben Wilson’s scent is still lingering on her coat.
Before I forget that I’m just the quiet guy who makes furniture, and she deserves someone who knows how to make her laugh the way Ben does, or make her feel wanted the way Milo does.
I just make things. That’s all I know how to do.
She picks up her scone, but her hand is trembling slightly. Her scent is still thick with want, and it’s taking everything I have not to reach for her.
“I should get back,” she says after a few more bites. “The venue contract won’t sign itself.”
“I’ll walk you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” I stand, pull out my wallet, leave enough cash on the table to cover the meal twice over. Maeve catches my eye from behind the counter and nods, that knowing look still on her face.
Outside, the air is cold enough to shock some clarity back into my head. Tessa walks beside me, arms wrapped around herself, and I don’t miss the way she angles slightly toward me. Like she’s seeking warmth. Like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.
We don’t talk. That’s fine. I’ve never needed words to fill silence.
Halfway back to her office, the first snowflake lands on her hair.
She looks up, surprised, and more follow—soft and slow, drifting down from a sky that was clear an hour ago. They catch in her eyelashes, on the shoulders of her coat, in the loose strands of hair around her face.
“Oh,” she says quietly. “It’s snowing.”
I watch one land on her cheek and melt. Watch her smile—a real one, not the polished professional version she wears like armor. For just a second, she looks young. Happy. Like she’s forgotten about the venue contracts and the bachelor lineup and everything else weighing on her.
She’s beautiful like this. She’s always beautiful, but right now, with snow in her hair and wonder on her face, she takes my breath away.
I could watch her like this forever. Standing in the middle of Main Street, face tilted up to the sky, catching snowflakes like a kid.
“We should keep moving,” I say. “Before it picks up.”
She nods, but she’s still smiling as we walk the rest of the way. And when her shoulder brushes mine, she doesn’t pull away.
When we reach her building, she stops at the door and turns to face me.
The January wind picks up, blowing a strand of hair across her face. She reaches up to push it back, but I’m already there—tucking it behind her ear before I can think better of it.
My fingers brush her cheek. Just barely. Just for a second.
She goes still. Her breath catches.
I drop my hand, shove it in my pocket. My heart is pounding.
What the hell was that, Smith?
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For lunch. And for the vases. They really are beautiful.”
“You’re welcome.”
She hesitates, like she wants to say something else. But then she just nods.
“I’ll see you at the auction.”
“See you then.”
Then she’s gone, disappearing through the door, and I’m left standing on the sidewalk with the cold wind biting at my face and her scent fading from my jacket.
The drive back to my workshop is quiet.
I keep the radio off, let the silence wrap around me. My head is full of her—her scent, her smile in the snow, the way she looked at me when I said because it’s you.
The house is dark when I pull up. Empty, like always.
But for the first time in a long time, I don’t mind the quiet so much. I’m too busy replaying every moment. The way she softened when she ate. The way her shoulder brushed mine and she didn’t pull away. The way her breath caught when I touched her cheek.
Her scent went sweet and warm today. Because of me. Because of something I said.
That meant something. Right?
I head inside, flick on the lights.
Maybe by then I’ll figure out what to do with this feeling in my chest. This hope I can’t quite shake.
Or maybe I’ll just keep making things and hoping she notices.
It’s worked so far.