Chapter 10
The chronological filing system was coming together beautifully, which meant Chloe had far too much time to think.
He’d apologized.
That was the part that stung most. Not the professional distance or the cool demeanor or even the way he’d practically fled into the darkness afterward. But that stiff apology, as if kissing her had been a regrettable lapse in judgment rather than the most earth-shaking moment of her recent memory.
She shoved another box onto a newly installed shelving unit with more force than necessary, and the whole thing rattled. The baby kicked as if in response.
“Easy there.” She patted her stomach. “Mama’s just frustrated with emotionally constipated doctors who kiss like it’s the end of the world and then say sorry.”
The baby kicked again, a gentle flutter that made her smile despite her mood.
She sighed and looked over at her coat hanging on the coatrack.
Her new coat, the one Victor had helped her into when she’d left the clinic.
She hadn’t even realized until the next day that he’d replaced her old one with a new one that was not only warmer and softer, but actually fit over her growing stomach.
I should thank him, she thought, not for the first time. Instead, she’d been avoiding the clinic for the past three days. And avoiding him meant she was being just as much of a coward as he was.
“Pathetic,” she muttered, pulling out her notebook to record the latest batch of documents. “He apologizes for kissing you and you hide in a dusty archive like a Victorian maiden who’s been compromised.”
Except she had been compromised. Because that kiss—that desperate, hungry, impossibly gentle kiss—had ruined her for all other kisses. Had made her want things she had no business wanting from a man who clearly didn’t want them back.
Or did he?
She chewed on the end of her pen, the familiar argument with herself replaying in her head. His words had said he was sorry. But his body, and the raw need in his eyes when he’d finally pulled away, had said something else entirely. She suspected he was terrified by just how much he wanted her.
To a certain extent she even understood that fear. The thought of trusting someone again, of letting someone close enough to hurt her the way Travis had, scared her. But Travis had been all smooth charm and empty promises. Victor was wrestling with something deeper than simple fear of commitment.
His great-grandfather’s journal sat in her desk drawer, calling to her.
She’d read it cover to cover now, piecing together the story of Dr. Thaddeus Jackson and what he called his “guardian.” The entries were remarkable—detailed observations of what sounded like a split personality, except Thaddeus wrote about it with clinical precision and no hint of shame or fear.
The guardian emerged during the mill fire.
I have no memory of the event, but witnesses say I pulled twelve people from the burning structure with impossible strength.
My hands bore no burns despite grasping red-hot metal.
Most curious: the sense of rightness afterward, as if two halves had temporarily aligned for a greater purpose.
Over the years his initial struggles with the guardian had faded. Later entries described learning to work with the guardian rather than against it. He’d found a balance and learned to use his heightened strength and healing for good.
Margaret says my eyes glow green when the guardian is near the surface. She finds it beautiful, claims it reminds her of spring leaves in sunlight. I am blessed beyond measure to have found a partner who sees the whole of me and does not flinch.
The final entry had been written shortly before Thaddeus’s death at the age of seventy-three.
To my descendants who may struggle as I once did: The guardian is not a curse but a gift.
Not a monster to be caged but a partner to be understood.
Fear will make you small. Trust—in yourself, in your purpose, in those who love you—will make you whole.
Choose wholeness. Choose love. Choose to be brave enough for both.
She had cried reading that last passage, thinking about Victor’s carefully controlled demeanor, his rigid boundaries, the way he held himself apart from everyone. He wasn’t choosing wholeness—he was choosing fear, and she had no idea how to help him see the difference.
A knock on the archive door interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
“Come in,” she called, expecting Houston with another box of documents or possibly Flora with unsolicited advice disguised as casual conversation.
Instead, Ginger poked her head through the doorway, her face breaking into a warm smile when she spotted Chloe.
“Hi! I hope I’m not interrupting. I told you I’d come by and visit but I’ve been ridiculously busy lately.”
She stood, smoothing down her maternity sweater. “Don’t worry about it. Houston mentioned that you’d been busy. He said you keep the town’s finances running smoothly while he manages the people side of things.”
“He’s being generous. I mostly just make sure he actually sends invoices instead of letting people pay him in baked goods.” Ginger’s smile turned impish. “Though to be fair, Mrs. Riley’s lemon bars are worth at least twenty dollars.”
She laughed.
“I brought tea.” Ginger held up a thermos. “I thought you might appreciate something warm. It’s chamomile—safe for pregnancy.”
The thoughtful gesture sent unexpected tears rushing to her eyes.
“Oh no, I’m sorry!” Ginger rushed forward. “I didn’t mean to—is it the wrong tea? Are you allergic to chamomile? Houston always says I’m too pushy—”
“It’s perfect.” She swiped at her eyes, and gave the other woman a shaky smile. “I’m just emotional because of the pregnancy hormones. Someone could hand me a sandwich and I’d probably cry about it.”
“In that case…” Ginger pulled a wrapped package from her bag. “I definitely didn’t bring peanut butter and honey sandwiches. That would be terrible.”
She laughed and gestured to the small seating area that had appeared in the corner a few days ago. “I hope you can spare a few minutes because I’d love some company. And it’s a perfect opportunity to try out these chairs that your husband brought down.”
Ginger raised an eyebrow as she settled into one of the chairs.
“It would be, except he didn’t put them here.”
“He didn’t?” A sudden suspicion crossed her mind. “How about the desk and the work table? All the other equipment?”
“Nope. He intended to,” Ginger added quickly. “But by the time he got round to it. It had already been done. You seem to have a mysterious benefactor.”
Victor, she thought immediately, and warmth spread through her chest. Even when he was trying to stay away from her, he was looking after her.
Ginger poured tea into two mugs she also pulled out of her bag. “How are you settling in? Houston said you’re in the old Thornhill cabin.”
“It’s lovely. Cozy. Very…” She searched for the right word. “Quiet.”
“Lonely?” Ginger asked gently.
“Sometimes.” She wrapped her hands around the warm cup. “I wanted a fresh start, and Fairhaven Falls seemed perfect. I also thought I’d enjoy being surrounded by nature. But I didn’t really think about how it would feel to be completely on my own.”
“You’re not, though. On your own, I mean.” Ginger took a sip of her tea. “Small towns are nosy and overwhelming and everyone knows your business before you do. But they’re also…” She paused, considering. “They’re family, if you let them be.”
“Is that how you felt when you came here?”
“I actually grew up here so I was used to it. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss it after my family moved away.”
“But you came back?”
“Yes. although it took me a while. Things were… complicated.”
She leaned forward. “Complicated how?”
“He was my older brother’s best friend. I knew—we both knew—that we should be together, but he didn’t say anything because he thought I was too young and innocent.
” Ginger rolled her eyes. “Minotaurs and their protective instincts. It’s sweet and infuriating in equal measure.
And then my family had to… leave town. We spent a long time apart, too long. ”
Her chest suddenly ached. Were she and Victor going to end up separated because of his protective instincts? Because he was afraid of hurting her?
“What changed?” she asked quietly.
“A lot of things. I came back to town. And Flora happened.” Ginger grinned. “She engineered a storm which left us trapped together.” She waggled her eyebrows. “A cabin, a blizzard, a big minotaur. What’s a girl to do?”
She laughed, but the story sent a shiver down her spine. A cabin, a storm, a male fighting against his instincts. It sounded familiar.
“And he just… got over it? His protective instincts?”
“To an extent. I mean he’ll always be protective. And in some ways he was right to be careful. Minotaurs are strong and territorial. He could cause a tremendous amount of harm if he wasn’t careful.”
Her chest tightened. “So maybe he was right. Maybe he was too dangerous.”
“No,” Ginger said firmly. “Being capable of harm and being dangerous to someone are completely different things. Houston would throw himself in front of a truck before he’d hurt me.”
“What if…” She hesitated, then pushed forward. “What if it’s more complicated than just strength and possessiveness? What if there’s something else involved?”
“You mean like with Dr. Jackson?” Ginger gave her a knowing smile. “Flora may have mentioned you’ve been spending time with Dr. Jackson. And that he’s been even more wound up than usual.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Flora talks too much.”
“Flora talks exactly the right amount to ensure everyone in town knows exactly what they need to know.” Ginger leaned forward conspiratorially. “So. Dr. Jackson. Want to talk about it?”
And somehow, she did.