Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
What Lingers
Lilly
“Good morning, Sunny,” I mumbled.
Her cold nose nudged the tender spot inside my elbow, a polite-but-firm reminder that the world didn’t run on my kind of time.
I groaned and slid one eye open. Sunlight was already spilling in a bright stripe across the quilt, dust motes floating like tiny fairies in the beam.
Too late for me—on any normal morning, I’d be up before the rooster two properties over started bragging.
Out of habit, I rolled toward the other side of the bed, and my hand met a cool, empty sheet.
No note on the nightstand. No boots left in a hurry on the floor.
Not even the lazy sprawl of a shirt forgotten on the chair.
Just the faintest whisper of leather and cedar on my pillow, clinging there like a secret.
I buried my face in it for a breath longer than I should have, then shook myself free.
“Okay, okay,” I told Sunny, who was practically vibrating.
Her tail thumped the mattress twice—polite turned persuasive.
I swung my legs out, found the floor with my toes, and shuffled to the back door.
The morning air reached in and cool-palmed my cheeks when I opened it.
Sunny bolted into the yard, nose down, mission critical.
That’s when I saw the hoofprints. Fresh, clean ovals pressed into the soft dirt beside the porch steps, leading to and from the shed like ellipses at the end of a sentence we never finished.
I crossed my arms against the chill and let a smile curl up, small and private. Of course, he’d saddled up in the dark. Of course, Sawyer had slipped away the same way he’d come—quiet as a thought I’d promised myself not to think anymore.
“My secret cowboy,” I murmured, and the word tasted like honey and trouble.
Sunny came trotting back, pleased with herself. I bent to scratch her ears. The yard smelled like sun-warmed hay and spring blooms. Inside, the house held onto Sawyer in tiny ways—the displaced quilt, the nightstand’s drawer still cracked open.
Bittersweet warmth spread through me, slow and tender. I loved that he came. I hated how we always separated before the sky turned the color of peaches. It felt like waking from the best dream and catching only the hem before it vanished with the morning’s light.
The first sip of coffee was always my favorite part of the morning.
It was rich and dark with just enough sweetness to make it feel like a treat.
I perched on a stool at the kitchen counter, plate balanced on my lap, toast slick with apricot jam that shimmered like melted sunshine.
The simple comfort of warm bread and sugar should have been enough to ground me, but the quiet pressed too heavily against my chest.
I replayed our brief conversation the night before, every teasing glance, every smirk, the way Sawyer’s voice had rumbled low against my throat when I’d teased him back.
We’d both acted as if this was just… casual—easy come, easy go.
And yet, soon, the words gave way to heat, and we ended up tangled, quenching our desires.
It hadn’t felt casual at all—not to me.
The trouble wasn’t the nights. Those, I could handle. It was the mornings — this emptiness that crept in when I realized he’d slipped away again. No note. No word. Just absence, as if daylight itself chased him off.
I tore off another piece of toast, letting the jam stick to my fingers.
Maybe this was exactly what I needed—something easy that didn’t demand anything more of me.
I’d told myself I was fine being alone, that I didn’t need marriage or children to feel complete.
I had my shop, parents, little house, and Sunny waiting at the back door. My life was full enough.
But the thought lodged in my heart like a splinter. Was it really enough? Would it always be?
Sawyer had his secrets. His years in the Navy had carved something into him, something he didn’t share and maybe never would. He carried himself like a man always ready to leave, always halfway out the door.
I pressed my sticky fingers to my mouth and whispered into the empty kitchen, “So why do I keep doing this?”
The silence, as usual, had no answer.
The phone buzzed against the counter, rattling my coffee spoon. I wiped the jam from my fingers and glanced at the screen, and just like that, my heart did a little somersault.
Sawyer: Thanks for last night. Miss you already. Let me pick you up tonight so you won’t have to leave your car at my place.
Heat rushed through me before I could stop it, curling low and hot, leaving me weak-kneed. Just reading his words brought back the press of his mouth against mine, the strength of his hands braced on either side of me, the way he made me forget everything except the feel of him.
Then doubt crept in, uninvited.
I remembered things Emma had reminded me of over lunch—how Sawyer had returned from the Navy carrying shadows he didn’t talk about and built walls no one could quite climb.
His inked body held deep secrets he didn’t trust me with.
A man like that didn’t daydream about forever.
He didn’t picture white picket fences or cribs in the corner of the bedroom.
He lived in the moment because the moment was all he had faith in.
For a second, my thumb hovered over the keyboard. I should tell him I wasn’t sure I could keep doing this. I needed more than midnight visits and morning goodbyes.
Instead, before I could talk myself out of it, I texted back:
Me: Sounds good. Ten o’clock. Can’t wait.
I set the phone down, pulse thudding. The truth pressed in hard and mercilessly. I wanted him again tonight. I wanted him in a way that felt reckless, addictive. Obsessive. And perhaps—that was a real issue Sawyer and I shared.
Then Sunny nudged her leash toward me. I knew I needed a different kind of distraction—something practical, something to remind me I was still in control of my life.
I slid into my car for the morning drive with Sunny in the passenger seat, her tongue happily lolling out the window while I practiced taking deep breaths to calm myself, but it didn’t work.
The bank was quiet, and the air from the AC was too cold. I slid my credit card across the counter, forcing my smile to stay steady while the teller processed the cash advance to the maximum limit.
Three thousand dollars!
The number flashed on the receipt, black ink on white paper, and my chest tightened. Another layer of debt was added to my already wobbly tower.
The teller, a sweet woman with kind eyes, gave me one of those looks—the kind you give someone when you know they’re drowning but don’t have a rope to throw them.
I hated it. My cheeks burned as I shoved the envelope of bills into my purse, nodded a thank-you, and walked out before she could offer sympathy.
Sunny wagged her tail as if this was just another errand, but as I gripped the steering wheel, the envelope heavy in my lap, I couldn’t shake the pain pressing down hard against the back of my eyes.
By the time I unlocked the shop door and turned on the lights, my headache had sharpened into a dull throb. The familiar scent of roses and eucalyptus greeted me, but even that comforting perfume couldn’t quite soothe my swirling anxiety.
I set my bag on the counter and pulled out my planner, noting that Marianne had updated her order for Friday’s party—table centerpieces, a cascading arrangement for her staircase, and enough blooms to make her backyard look like spring had exploded overnight.
Usually, I’d be excited about a project this big.
Instead, I found myself staring at the list of lilies, tulips, and greenery until the words blurred.
A sudden wave of dizziness made me grab the counter. I blinked hard, waiting for the world to settle. My first thought was simple: hormones. Probably just the start of my period. Except… when I really counted back, my stomach dropped. I hadn’t had one since before the cruise.
The memory hit me like a slap. That morning in Hawaii, I shoved the tiny silver foil packet into my purse, promising I’d take it later when I got to Arizona.
Except I hadn’t.
My hand tightened around the edge of the counter, knuckles white. Panic coiled low in my belly, sharp and hot, and for a moment all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears.
No. I shook my head. I couldn’t go there, not yet. Not when I had work to do.
I forced myself to move, to cut stems with quick, precise snips, to tuck pale yellow tulips into a vase. When the bell above the door jingled, I nearly jumped. A woman with a frazzled smile stepped in, asking for a cheerful bouquet for her sister who’d been admitted to the hospital.
“Something sunny,” she said, fingers fidgeting with her purse strap. “She hates hospitals.”
Finally, something I could handle. I pulled out bundles of daisies and sprigs of baby’s breath, letting the simple rhythm of arranging flowers calm my nerves.
The woman chattered about her sister’s stubbornness, how she’d probably try to sneak out of bed before the nurses cleared her, and I laughed at all the right moments.
Grateful for the noise and distraction, I focused on the flowers. For a moment, I could pretend the bouquet was the only thing that mattered.
The shop door chimed again as I tied the last ribbon around the get-well bouquet. I figured maybe the woman had forgotten her keys, but then I saw Martin’s familiar figure filling the doorway.
“Morning, Lilly.” His voice slid across the room like grease on glass, that smile of his too smooth, too practiced.
I set an arrangement aside and reached for my purse, already feeling the tremor in my hand. The envelope of cash sat heavy in my palm, and passing it to him felt like peeling off a layer of my own skin. Three thousand dollars—money I didn’t have but had borrowed anyway—disappearing in a blink.
Martin’s fingers snatched it up quick as a fox, sliding it into the inside of his coat before I’d even finished letting go. He didn’t bother with a receipt; he just scribbled something on his clipboard, his head bent like he was doing me a favor.
“There we go,” he said casually, pen scratching. “You’re square now. I’ll make sure your new order is processed. Flowers’ll be here this afternoon, just like always."
I forced a smile, though my stomach tightened into a hard ball. Something about the way he tucked that money away, like he was hiding it from the world, nagged at the back of my mind.
"Good,” I managed, though the word stuck in my throat. “I’ll need plenty of time to get her order ready.”
He tipped his hat, gave me one last oily grin, and sauntered out as if he owned the place.
The door chimed behind him, leaving the shop too quiet again.
I lingered there a moment longer, hands flat on the counter, trying to shake the unease.
But with so much riding on this weekend, I couldn’t afford to second-guess him.
I had flowers to arrange, orders to fill, and bills that wouldn’t pay themselves.
So I pushed the worry down deep, like I always did, and went back to work — pretending my world wasn’t balanced on the edge of crumbling.
Later in the afternoon, the delivery truck finally rumbled away, and the last box of flowers was stacked inside.
My head felt like it was splitting in two.
Every throb pulsed behind my eyes, sharp and relentless, until even the softest light in the shop made me wince.
I sank into the chair behind the counter, pressing my fingertips to my temples.
Sunny curled up at my feet with a sigh, as if she knew I needed the company. The silence pressed in, too heavy and close. My purse mocked me, empty and lighter.
Three thousand bucks lighter, and no receipt to prove it.
I picked up my phone, stared at the dark screen, and felt the familiar tug in my chest. Tonight, Sawyer would expect me. He’d flash that crooked grin, tip his hat, and sweep me into another night that left me aching for him long after he was gone.
I typed the words slowly, each letter blurring a little as the headache pulsed harder.
Me: Can’t tonight. Headache. Nothing to worry about.
My finger hovered before I pressed send, but I forced it anyway.
I set the phone face down and leaned back, gazing at the riot of color around me—carnations, tulips, daisies, all shouting joy I couldn’t feel. My heart refused to quiet.
I told myself I didn’t want more.
Deep down, I knew I was better than this. If I kept meeting Sawyer at night, it wouldn’t just be sleep I lost. It would be parts of myself I might never regain.