Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Henderson’s Flower Shop was doing brisk business when we walked in, the bell chiming above the door.
The entire space was filled with a calamity of floral scents, with various arrangements covering every surface.
Mrs. Henderson looked up from where she was helping a customer, her face lighting up with recognition.
“Ah! Just a moment, dears.”
The shop was warm, almost too warm after the cold outside, and I unbuttoned my coat. We waited while she finished with her customer, watching her efficient hands arrange white roses and silver eucalyptus into a stunning centerpiece.
“Now then,” Mrs. Henderson said, turning her full attention to us once the customer had left with their arrangement. She looked more frazzled than usual, her hair escaping from its normally neat bun. “What can I do for you two?”
“We’re visiting someone at Millcrest Meadows,” I said. “I’m thinking something cheerful.”
Mrs. Henderson gestured toward several elegant arrangements lined up on the shelf behind her counter.
“I have a few New Year bouquets that would be perfect. I especially recommend the paperwhites with silver eucalyptus—they’re fragrant, elegant, and the scent fills a room beautifully.
Or if you prefer something more dramatic, I have white amaryllis with frosted pine. ..”
“The paperwhites,” Dominic said smoothly.
“Wonderful choice.” Mrs. Henderson said as she began preparing the bouquet for transport. “You won’t be disappointed.”
Her nimble fingers punched the register keys with practiced haste. Dominic slid his credit card across the counter before I could reach for my wallet, his steel-gray eyes meeting mine with a slight shake of his head.
Dominic gathered the arrangement as we murmured our thanks to Mrs. Henderson. When we finally stepped out of the flower shop, the winter air nipped sharply against my cheeks and nose.
“She’s stretched thin,” I observed as we settled into the car.
“Committee work on top of running a business.” Dominic started the car. “That’s a lot for anyone.”
Once we were moving, I noticed the box of chocolates and two bags of salt and vinegar chips in the backseat beside the carefully secured flower arrangement. “When did you get those?”
“Stopped at Monroe’s before I picked you up.” Dominic pulled smoothly into traffic. “Called Millcrest Meadows this morning to check their policies—dietary restrictions, visiting hours, that sort of thing. The staff said Margie doesn’t have any restrictions and loves dark chocolate truffles.”
I stared at him. “You called ahead to check?”
“Of course.” He glanced at me, looking genuinely puzzled by my surprise. “Why wouldn’t I? Showing up with something she can’t have would be awkward at best, potentially harmful at worst. Always do research before an important meeting.”
“This isn’t a corporate negotiation,” I teased, warmth spreading through my chest at his thoughtfulness.
His hand found my thigh, warm and possessive. “I’m thorough in whatever I do.”
The weight of his hand on my leg felt grounding. Right. I covered it with my own, threading our fingers together for a moment before releasing his hand to reach for one of the bags of salt and vinegar chips.
The bag crinkled as I opened it, the sharp vinegar scent immediately filling the car. I selected a chip and held it up.
“Here,” I said.
Dominic glanced at it, then at me, his eyebrows rising slightly. A smile tugged at his lips—that private smile that was just for me. “Feeding me? What did I do to deserve this?”
“The baby wants to share,” I said, holding the chip closer to his mouth.
“The baby, hmm?” His eyes gleamed with amusement and something warmer. “Not you?”
“Maybe both of us.” I brushed the chip against his lower lip teasingly. “Now open.”
He did, and I slid the chip between his lips, my fingertips grazing the soft skin. His tongue darted out reflexively, catching the salt and vinegar on my fingers, and the casual intimacy of the touch sent pleasant warmth through me.
His face scrunched up immediately. “Christ, that’s intense.”
“That’s the point.” I ate one myself, savoring the sharp tang, then deliberately licked the residue from my thumb and forefinger before selecting another. “Want more?”
Through the bond, I felt his hunger spike—and not just for the food I offered. His hand on my thigh squeezed gently.
“You’re playing with me,” he observed, though his tone was indulgent.
“Maybe.” I held up the next chip, watching his profile. “You complaining?”
“Never.” He opened his mouth again, keeping his eyes on the road but angling his head slightly toward me.
This time when I fed him, I let my fingers linger against his lips just a moment longer. His tongue deliberately brushed my fingertips as he took the chip, and the touch sent a pleasant flutter through my stomach.
“You’re a fucking tease,” he murmured after swallowing.
“You like it.” I reached for the water bottles we’d picked up, opening his first. I took a quick sip myself, then held the bottle to his lips. “Drink.”
He did, his throat working as he swallowed, his free hand coming up to steady the bottle over mine. Our fingers overlapped, and I felt his contentment through the bond—this simple domesticity, this easy intimacy we’d reclaimed.
When he’d had enough, I capped the bottle and set it aside, then opened my own and took a long drink.
“Better?” I asked.
“Much.” His voice had that low quality that made me smile. “Though I think you’re enjoying making me want more than just those damn chips.”
“I am,” I admitted, offering him another chip. This time when his lips closed around my fingers, he deliberately sucked the salt from my skin, his tongue warm against my fingertips.
Heat coiled in my belly. “Dominic,” I said, though it came out more amused than scolding.
“You started it,” he pointed out reasonably, his thumb stroking over my thigh.
“Learn to control yourself, alpha,” I chastised, but my smile gave me away.
A low sound rumbled from his throat—not quite a growl, not quite laughter, but something primal that danced between the two.
My chest warmed. I liked this. This easy playfulness and comfortable intimacy. It felt right.
I fed him another chip, then ate one myself. We fell into a comfortable rhythm—chip, water, the occasional teasing comment. His hand stayed on my thigh, warm and grounding. The winter afternoon sun slanted through the windshield, and for a few minutes, everything else felt far away.
Millcrest Meadows sat on a quiet street lined with old oak trees, their branches bare for winter. The building itself was newer—maybe twenty years old—but designed to look traditional, with brick facades and white trim that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Historical District proper.
The lobby was warm and still decorated for Christmas, with a large tree in the corner and garlands draped along the reception desk. A woman in her forties looked up as we entered, her smile professional and welcoming.
“Good afternoon. Are you here to visit a resident?”
“Margie Patterson,” Dominic said. “We called ahead.”
“Of course! Mrs. Patterson is always delighted to have visitors. She’s in apartment 2B—just up the stairs and to the right. The elevator’s there if you prefer.”
“Stairs are fine,” I said, even as Dominic’s hand found my lower back.
We climbed to the second floor, the hallway quiet except for the distant sound of a television playing old Christmas movies. Apartment 2B had a wreath on the door and a small nameplate that read “M. Patterson” in elegant script.
I knocked, and after a moment, a voice called out, “Come in, come in! Door’s open!”
We entered a small but comfortable apartment that smelled like lavender and old books.
The living room was filled with photographs—decades of family memories covering every surface.
A tiny artificial Christmas tree sat on a side table, decorated with handmade ornaments that looked like they’d been collected over a lifetime.
Margie Patterson sat in a wingback chair by the window, a blanket over her lap despite the warmth of the room.
She was small, bird-like, with white hair styled in soft curls and eyes that were still sharp and bright behind wire-rimmed glasses.
She must have been in her late eighties or early nineties, but her smile was warm and immediate.
“Well, well,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong. “Visitors! And with flowers, I see.”
“Mrs. Patterson,” I said, moving forward to set the paperwhites on the table beside her chair. “I’m Leo Sterling-Hart, and this is Dominic Steele. We were hoping we could talk to you for a bit.”
“Leo Sterling-Hart.” Her gaze shifted from the white roses and winter berries to study my face with the kind of assessment that showed she was still keen despite her advanced years. Her expression shifted, lighting up with recognition. “Oh! I know that red hair.”
She leaned forward. “You’re Benji’s grandson, aren’t you? The one who took over his cobbler shop?”
Warmth flooded through me. “Yes, ma’am. You knew my grandfather?”
“Knew him? Benji was one of the best men I ever had the privilege to know.” Her smile was fond, nostalgic.
“Your grandfather had a heart bigger than this whole district. Always looking out for people who needed help, always making sure folks were taken care of.” She gestured toward her small sofa.
“Sit, sit, both of you. And someone hand me that box—are those chocolates?”
Dominic gave her the truffles, and she opened them with genuine delight, selecting one immediately. “Oh, dark chocolate! My absolute favorite. How thoughtful.”
Dominic and I settled onto the sofa, close together.
We spent a few minutes in pleasant conversation—Margie asking about my shop, and sharing stories about the district. It was only after we’d been there for a bit, after she’d had another chocolate and seemed comfortable with us, that her sharp eyes focused on me with a knowing intensity.