Chapter 19
19
[Vale]
A s the conversation with Cort finally concludes, he tugs me toward him, captures the back of my head and wraps his arm around my lower back.
And just holds me. Like really hugs me.
Still, I’m stiff for a second.
I consider myself affectionate.
I hug Hudson all the time.
I’m loving toward my brothers and have offered them more hugs than they’ve given me.
However, none of that feels like what’s happening here.
The way Cort is holding me, like I’m precious, like I’m fragile.
For all my insistence that I’m a strong independent woman who can take care of herself, who doesn’t want to be hugged once in a while?
This is no hug, though.
It’s a full body experience, in which Cort’s legs are still wrapped around the back of my knees, locked at his ankles.
His fingers are on my nape.
His palm against my lower back .
“Vale, honey.” Cort pauses, still holding me.
“Get out of your head.”
Slowly, I release a deep breath and settle against him.
Then, I let out a low exhale and fully melt.
With my head on his shoulder, I hear the racing of his heart near my ear.
My arms feel trapped a second, but as if sensing what I need, Cort slips the hand from my nape underneath one of my arms, allowing me to wrap around his neck.
Then he returns his hand to my head and presses me tighter to his chest.
“This okay?” he whispers before tucking his face into my neck, his nose against my throat.
“Yeah.” Yeah, this is good .
My eyes fill with tears once again, and I rapidly blink at them.
Feeling silly, while giddy; foolish, while light.
For a man adverse to touch, Cortland Haven knows how to hug.
However, too soon, I’m glancing back at that ceiling corner where security cameras are in place for both my safety and the safety of patients.
Hesitantly, I push at Cort’s shoulders, gently releasing myself from the first real hug I’ve had in ages.
“Your time is almost up,” I whisper, hoarse and low, like I’m afraid to snap whatever is happening between us.
Waiting for this weird tension to fling back at me like a rubber band and sting.
Cort simply nods, slipping his hands to my shoulders, then stroking down my arms to circle my wrists.
“We good?”
I nod without looking at him because I don’t know how to respond.
Are we good? On which topic?
My diagnosis? His suggestion?
He wants to help me get over myself.
I’d laugh if I didn’t think he was serious.
I just didn’t know what that could possibly look like.
Or feel like .
By the time he leaves Reflexology, I’m a mess of emotions.
Thankfully, I’m finished by noon and check out of work early.
The spring afternoon is beautiful, and I need some time outdoors with my bees.
Roughly a year after Hudson’s birth, a beginner’s bee box arrived for me.
A rare and unusual gift from Hudson’s father for my first Mother’s Day.
At first, I was puzzled by the present.
Ken never knew my nickname.
It also felt ill-timed as I had a toddling son and my first job and no extra time for myself.
But a year or so after the arrival of the gift, I found the box in the shed and decided to give beekeeping a try.
How cool would it be to harvest my own honey and use the surplus in homemade products?
Of course, then I had to learn how to make soaps and creams with this key ingredient.
As a natural humectant, a compound that helps pull moisture to itself and retain it, honey is an ideal product for skincare.
It’s great for sensitive skin and perfect in massage lotions, and over the past few years, I’ve developed a personal line.
I don’t sell it anywhere, although Clay has been pushing me to expand, offering to put my products on the shelf at Sylver Seed & Soil.
I keep putting him off, telling him I’ll think about it.
For now, I keep bees for me.
And this gorgeous day is the perfect temperature for inspecting the hive and opening for business, as I like to call it.
The concentration I need to pull winter insulation and assess frames allows me to escape for a little while.
To forget about my father, and the memories the mention of him brought forward.
To not think about Cort’s questions, his suggestions, or his proposition.
Let me help you never feel deprived again .
His hug certainly helped.
The embrace was like none I’ve ever experienced before and don’t expect to ever feel again.
Even hours later, though, just thinking about how Cort held me, it’s like I can still feel his arms around me.
His hand cupping my nape.
His nose against my skin.
The sensation is surreal and one I try to shake.
However, like my bees beneath smoke, lulled into calm, the feeling returns again and again.
The warmth. The promise.
I’m not one to put much faith in possibilities, but there is no doubt about the strength of Cort’s arms. The way he embraced me.
The comfort of his body against mine.
I’d like to experience it again.
Then I shake myself once more.
Nope, not going there .
Right now, it is time for me.
Not my head or my heart.
Just me and my bees.
Despite my afternoon with the beehive, in less than twenty-four hours later, I’m wound up again by Hudson on the evening before his mini-sports camp.
The Haven brothers asking Ford if they could use his future camp was rather shocking, but I also hoped it was an olive branch of goodwill.
Maybe fences wouldn’t ever be mended between our families, but small steps had been taken to open gates of compromise.
I’d volunteered for the camp because my brother owns the place, not because I wanted to helicopter Hudson, as he has just accused me of doing.
“I’m what?” I choke, staring at my eleven-year-old which is like looking into a mirror.
Thankfully, most of his features resemble mine and not his dad’s.
“You’re helicoptering me.”
My mouth falls open as I stare at my child across the kitchen island where he sits on a stool, eating the dinner this pilot prepared .
“How am I helicoptering you?” I’ve heard the term and its reference to parents that hover over every action of their children.
I know parents who behave like that, living vicariously through their child, or hyper-monitoring their kid’s every decision.
I am most certainly not that kind of parent.
I’m involved, and there’s a difference.
“Why do you need to go this weekend with me?”
“I’m not going with you, I’m going to help the team.” Parent volunteers were needed to prepare meals and handle cleanup.
Plus, Ford needs help with the initial setup for the boys.
He’s made the rooms as self-sufficient as possible, telling campers to bring their own pillows and sheets, preferably sleeping bags.
The old hunting cabins on the property have been converted into bunkhouses that hold four kids per room.
Hudson snorts, lowering his head and picking at the spaghetti I made.
“Where is all this coming from, bud?”
“I’m not a baby,” he snaps, and I’m taken aback.
Although he’s a pretty great kid, Hudson isn’t perfect, and I’ve never boasted that I’m the ideal mother.
However, we don’t typically fight other than squabbles about hustling in the morning or homework at night.
So, despite my shock at his tone, I tune into what he says.
“You’re right. You’re not a baby. You’re a boy. A smart, athletic, growing boy seeking independence but still needing guidance.”
Hudson huffs and that second puff of air tips me off.
Atticus. That kid’s attitude is rubbing off on my son, who might still be angry at me for refusing to let him go to the Stanton’s house the other day after school without proof that an adult was present.
When Hudson asked, I replied by inquiring if Henry was home.
“He’s home,” Atticus quickly told me before sliding a sly glance at my son as we stood in the school parking lot .
“Really? Let’s get him on the phone.” I tipped my chin at the kid, challenging him.
Challenge not accepted.
He refused to call his dad, knowing he wasn’t home, and I refused to let Hudson go over to their house without adult supervision at the ready to intervene should trouble arise.
Yeah, maybe I am a helicopter.
I’ll be fucking Stealth bomber if I need to be when it comes to Hudson.
In my anger, I didn’t offer that the Stanton twins could come to our house.
“I don’t need guidance,” Hudson counters.
Everything in me wants to point out how he didn’t make his own dinner, didn’t launder the clean clothing he’s wearing, or pay for the camp he’s attending, but I bite my tongue.
“Well, hopefully you’ll be having too much fun to bother with what I’m doing, as I’ll be too busy making meals and cleaning up to be concerned with what you’re doing.”
Hudson looks up at me, his face befuddled, but I’m done with this discussion.
I have bigger concerns, like how I’m going to ignore his baseball coach, who gave me the hug of a lifetime, for the next few days.