Chapter 7 Chloe
CHLOE
The house was quiet when Chloe got home.
She'd been renting the little place on Maple Lane since she'd arrived in Hollow Oak, a two-room cabin with creaky floors and a wood-burning stove that ate through logs like candy. It wasn't much, but it was hers. Or hers enough, anyway.
She kicked off her muddy boots by the door, peeled off her layers, and padded to the kitchen in wool socks to put the kettle on. Her muscles ached from crouching in cold mud all morning. Good ache, though. The kind that came from useful work.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen and sighed.
Wendy.
She answered anyway. "Hey."
"You sound tired." Her sister's voice was distant, crackling faintly like she was calling from the other side of the world. Which, knowing Wendy, she might be.
"Long day. I was out at an orchard checking soil samples."
"Find anything?"
"Something's wrong with the land. Plants dying, bees acting strange. No one can figure out why."
A pause. Then, in that maddening cryptic tone Wendy always used when she knew more than she was saying: "The land speaks to those who listen. Are you listening?"
Chloe pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm trying to. It's not exactly coming through clearly."
"It will. Give it time."
"You could just tell me what I'm supposed to be looking for."
"I could." Another pause. "But then you wouldn't learn to trust yourself."
"That's not helpful, Wendy."
"I know." Her sister's voice softened, just slightly. "How are you, really? Beyond the soil problems."
Chloe hesitated. The kettle started to whistle, and she turned off the burner, grateful for the distraction. "I'm fine. Settling in. Making friends."
"Anyone interesting?"
The image of Corin rose unbidden. Broad shoulders, patient hands, that almost-smile he'd given her when she'd rattled off her phone number like it was nothing.
"Not really," she said.
"Liar."
"Goodbye, Wendy."
Her sister laughed, a rare sound. "Call me when you figure out what the land is trying to tell you. I'll be here."
The line went dead.
Chloe stared at her phone for a moment, then shoved it in her pocket and made her tea. Chamomile with honey. She'd bought a jar from Freya last week, made from Corin's bees. The amber sweetness coated her tongue as she drank, warming her from the inside out.
She curled up on the worn couch by the stove, mug in hand, and let her thoughts drift.
Corin had been so careful today. Keeping his distance. Matching her pace on the walk to the barn but never brushing too close. Even when he'd handed her the coffee, he'd made sure their fingers didn't touch.
Polite. Respectful.
Disinterested.
She'd seen it before. Men who were kind to her, helpful even, but who never looked at her the way she sometimes caught herself looking at them. She didn't inspire passion. She inspired friendliness. Mild fondness at best.
It was fine. She'd made peace with it years ago.
She'd dated, of course. Quietly, briefly.
A botanist in Portland who'd been more interested in her plant knowledge than her body.
A bartender in Asheville who'd stuck around for three months before admitting he wasn't looking for anything serious.
A few forgettable first dates that never became second ones.
Nothing that burned. Nothing that lasted.
And that was fine. She had her work. Her plants. Her slow journey toward understanding whatever strange gift her blood carried.
She didn't need more than that.
Chloe finished her tea and rinsed the mug in the sink. The cottage had grown dark around her, and she hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. Just the orange glow from the stove, casting long shadows across the wooden floor.
She was tired. Bone tired, the kind that came from cold and work and too many thoughts she didn't want to examine.
She changed into a worn flannel shirt that hung past her thighs and climbed into bed. The sheets were cold at first, then slowly warmed around her as she curled onto her side.
Before she even realized that she was sleeping, Chloe was already well into a dream.
She was in the orchard. Not the cold gray version from this morning, but something softer. Warmer. Late afternoon light slanting golden through the apple trees, heavy with fruit that shouldn't exist in January.
Corin stood by the fence line, facing away from her.
She walked toward him without deciding to. The grass was soft beneath her bare feet, and somewhere nearby, bees hummed in lazy contentment.
He turned when she reached him. Those hazelnut eyes found hers, and something in them had changed. The careful distance was gone. In its place was heat. Want. A hunger he wasn't bothering to hide.
"Chloe."
Her name in his mouth was a low rumble, almost a growl.
He reached for her, and his hands were warm against her waist, spanning nearly the width of her. He pulled her close, and she went willingly, pressing against the solid wall of his chest.
"I've been waiting," he said against her hair.
"For what?"
"For you to see."
His mouth found hers, and the world narrowed to honey and heat. He tasted like summer, like sunshine, like something she'd been craving. His hands slid up her back, gathering her closer, and she arched into him with a soft sound she'd never made in waking life.
He lifted her like she weighed nothing, and then she was pressed against the rough bark of an apple tree, his body a wall of warmth between her and the world. His mouth traced down her throat while his hands found the hem of her shirt, fingers brushing bare skin.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against her collarbone.
"Don't."
He groaned, and the sound vibrated through her, settling low and hot in her belly. His thigh pressed between hers, and she gasped at the friction, the pressure, the delicious ache building at her center. She rocked against him instinctively, chasing something just out of reach.
His mouth returned to hers, swallowing her small desperate noises. His hand slid higher, cupping her breast through the thin fabric, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak until she whimpered.
She was burning. Melting. Coming apart in his hands like morning frost.
"Corin, please..."
He smiled against her throat, slow and knowing. "Say my name again."
"Corin."
His hand slid down, down, fingers trailing fire across her stomach, lower still until...
She woke gasping.
The cottage was dark. Cold. The stove had burned low while she slept, and she lay tangled in her sheets with her heart pounding and her skin flushed and an ache between her thighs that made her squeeze them together against the emptiness.
Just a dream.
She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heartbeat to slow. Her body hummed with unspent need, slick and wanting and utterly inconvenient.
She hadn't dreamed like that in years. Hadn't wanted like that in longer.
Corin Vane, with his patient hands and his quiet voice and his complete lack of interest in her.
She was an idiot.
Chloe threw off the covers and stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face until the heat faded from her cheeks. Her reflection stared back at her in the dim mirror, green eyes too bright, lips still parted.
She looked like a woman who'd been kissed. Who had done more than kiss. She was jealous of that version.
"Get it together," she muttered to herself. "You’ve just been in a long dry spell, that’s all. He's just being nice. Pull it together."
She went back to bed after her unsuccessful pep talk, but sleep was a long time coming.
And when it finally did, she dreamed of honey again.