Chapter 5
Adaline
By the time I step back out onto the patio, I’ve decided I won’t let the humiliation of the vase incident chase me away.
The sting in my finger has dulled to a faint throb, wrapped in a tiny bandage I applied myself in the bathroom. My pride, however? That’s still bleeding.
But Aunt Jane doesn’t need to see any of that.
She’s sitting in her favorite chair, a light blanket over her lap, the late-morning sun soft on her face.
The sight of her eases the tight pull in my chest. Whatever awkwardness hangs between Hunter and me, whatever storm he’s still carrying around in that broad, tense frame of his—I can’t let it spill onto her.
I square my shoulders, paste on a light smile, and walk toward her.
“There you are, dear,” Aunt Jane says, eyes brightening the moment she spots me. “I was beginning to worry Hunter had scared you off already.”
“Not that easy to get rid of me,” I say lightly, ignoring the little twist in my stomach at his name. “Besides, I still owe you your exercises and at least two cups of herbal tea.”
She chuckles, patting the seat beside her. “Come sit. We should talk about your duties and what you’ll need while you’re here.”
I sink into the chair next to hers, the cushion soft and familiar already.
A gentle breeze carries the scent of roses from the garden, and for a minute, I let myself just breathe it in.
We’re on the shaded part of the patio, where the stone is warm but not hot, and the light filters through the overhang in dappled patches.
“I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed,” she says, folding her hands neatly over the blanket.“Since the shoulder surgery, I don’t trust myself the way I used to,” Aunt Jane adds lightly.
“One dizzy spell, one bad step—and Hunter decided a trained nurse was non-negotiable.”
She meets my eyes, warm and sincere. “So tell me, Nurse Adaline—what do you need from us to do your job well?”
The way she asks it genuinely, respectfully, makes my throat tighten.
I clear it.
“Well… I’d like to look at what you’re currently taking, dosages, timing,” I say.
“I would also like to call and set up some appointments with your doctors if needed. Then we can attend together, and we’ll set up a consistent routine for your walks and physical therapy, short, gentle sessions at first. Maybe before lunch?”
“Walks.” She sighs, though her eyes are amused. “Everyone’s determined to make me move.”
“Everyone wants you to feel your best.” I smile. “Movement helps with circulation, appetite, and mood. And your bones will thank you.”
She eyes me like she’s weighing how much she wants her bones to be grateful. “Fine. But only if we walk somewhere pretty. I refuse to march circles in a hallway like I’m in a hospital.”
“We’ll use the garden,” I promise. “It’s perfect. Flat enough, shaded, and close enough that if you get tired, we can come right back in.”
Aunt Jane’s gaze softens, and I can see her slipping into a thoughtful silence, the way patients do when they’re deciding if they can trust someone with their health.
“I’ll make sure it feels like home. Just… with a slightly bossy nurse who cares too much.”
She laughs at that, a warm, approving sound. “Good. I prefer bossy to apathetic.”
We go over the essentials, sleep, food, energy, and routines. I ask questions, jot notes in my planner, already mapping out gentle routines in my head. She speaks openly, answering everything, occasionally teasing herself for sounding “like an old engine that needs oiling.”
“I do have one request,” she says, raising a finger.
“Of course.”
“No fussing,” she says. “If I say I’m fine, and I clearly am, I don’t need you hovering like one of those dramatic TV nurses with a tragic backstory.”
My lips twitch. “Good news, I’m not dramatic.”
Her eyes twinkle. “And your backstory?”
“Firmly off the record,” I say. “For now.”
She looks pleased by that. “Fair enough.”
I’m about to ask about her latest appointment when footsteps cross the stone behind me, controlled, unmistakably Hunter’s.
“Adaline,” he says from behind my chair, tone cool, composed, like we didn’t just nearly bite each other’s heads off in the kitchen.
I turn, schooling my expression into neutral. “Yes?”
He stands there in a dark T-shirt and jeans, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. Even while I’m still upset with the way he behaved in the kitchen, I can't help noticing how handsome he looks.
And I also wonder if he ever truly relaxes. Somehow, I doubt it.
“We need to go over your contract again later today,” he says. “There are additional documents that require your physical signature for the house rules and liability clauses.”
Translation—he wants control. Documented.
“Of course,” I say, keeping my tone professional. “Just let me know when you’re free.”
“And,” he adds, gaze flicking briefly to the notebook in my lap, “I expect strict professionalism while you’re here. Clear boundaries.” Aunt Jane makes a small disapproving sound, but I feel the words like a shove.
Strict professionalism.
It’s not what he says, it’s how he says it. As if he’s reminding me I’m temporary. Replaceable. One misstep from being tossed out. I close my notebook slowly, set the pen across it, and look him straight in the eye.
“I understand the need for professionalism,” I say calmly. “And you can trust that with me. But I need you to understand something too.”
His brows lift almost imperceptibly. “Do I?”
“Yes,” I say, pulse starting to thrum in my throat. “My priority here is Aunt Jane’s health. That’s why I’m here. So if I ever have to choose between your rules and what’s best for her—”
I hold his gaze.
“I’ll choose her,” I say quietly.
Aunt Jane’s fingers curl around the edge of her blanket, her eyes shining with unmistakable pride towards me. Hunter’s jaw clenches. It’s subtle, but I see it.
“No one said you couldn’t do your job,” he replies, voice a shade colder. “I simply don’t tolerate chaos in this house.”
“Needing help during an emergency,” I say, “doesn’t make someone incompetent.”
His eyes flash. We both know I’m not talking about Aunt Jane. I’m talking about myself. About last night. About the rain and the broken car and the fact that I had no choice but to trust a stranger on a motorcycle.
His silence stretches. For a heartbeat, something that might be guilt flickers behind his gaze. Then it’s gone, shuttered behind cool detachment.
“Noted,” he says stiffly.
He looks like he’s about to say something else, but instead he simply nods once. “We’ll talk later,” he tells me. Then, to Aunt Jane: “Don’t let her overwork you.”
Aunt Jane waves him away. “Stop hovering over my calendar, Hunter. Go do billionaire things.”
Then he turns and walks back into the house, leaving the faint scent of his cologne and tension in his wake. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Well,” I murmur, attempting a wry smile. “That went… great.”
Aunt Jane pats my hand. “Don’t mind him,” she says. “He sounds grumpy, but that’s just how he says he cares.”
I arch a brow. “That was him caring?”
She chuckles. “In his own backwards way, yes. He’s protective. Of his routines. Of this house. Of me.” Her voice softens on the last word. “He thinks if he controls everything, nothing else can fall apart.”
I glance toward the doorway Hunter disappeared through. “That sounds… exhausting.”
“It is,” she says simply. “For him. And for everyone who loves him.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I squeeze her hand instead.
“But don’t let him scare you off,” she adds firmly. “You stood up to him just now. That’s good. He needs someone who doesn’t just fold when he scowls. He’s used to people walking away, not staying.”
The words settle over me like a quiet challenge. I swallow. “Well,” I say softly, “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
And as I say it, I realize I mean it. Whether Hunter Rexon likes it or not.
Aunt Jane is still smiling as we wrap up our conversation, her eyes bright with a kind of gentle excitement I haven't seen in many patients, not on their first full day with a new caregiver, anyway. It softens something inside me.
“A little later,” she says, patting my hand, “you and I will sit together, and I want you to tell me exactly what each medicine does.”
I smile. “Absolutely. We’ll go through everything one by one. And we’ll start mapping out a routine that works for you.”
“Wonderful,” she beams, pushing herself carefully to her feet. Mrs. Lane is already hovering nearby, ready to help her inside. “I’ll rest for a bit before our lesson. You just take a moment for yourself, dear, you look like you’ve lived three days in one morning.”
She isn’t wrong.
I watch as she and Mrs. Lane disappear through the patio doors, their soft conversation fading down the hallway. When the door closes behind them, a blanket of quiet settles over the garden, a soft, warm hush broken only by the rustle of leaves.
Finally… space to breathe.
I step off the patio stones and onto the narrow path that winds through the rose garden. Even after last night’s storm, the buds stand tall, pink, cream, and deep summer red. The air here smells like earth and rain and something sweet, and I can feel my shoulders loosening with each step.
I stop beside a bush heavy with blooms and close my eyes. Hunter’s voice hits me immediately.
“You’re a nurse, not a decorator. Don’t touch things you don’t understand.”
Sharp and cold, and yet behind it… something else. Something I didn’t want to acknowledge at the time. Because right after cutting me down, he’d noticed my bleeding finger.
He’d cared. Not in a soft, gentle way. More in, he doesn’t know he cares way. Or at least he looked guilty just for a second.
And that might be worse. I exhale slowly, trying to shake the memory loose. “It’s fine,” I whisper to myself. “It was just a bad moment.”
But the truth is… it hurt. Not only because he was harsh, but because Hunter Rexon looks at me like I’m a problem he needs to contain.